Page 31 of Heathens
“You think pie is going to distract me?” She raises her eyebrows and looks up at me. Her golden skin and dark hair are both slick with sweat. She’s getting older, and looking after a house this size is beginning to take its toll.
“Please, Greta. Please.” I push my hands together in front of me in faux prayer.
Greta looks to Evelyn, who only mutters what sounds something akin tohere we go.
“Fine. But you have to help me with the garden later today.” She quirks an eyebrow and grabs the rag she was using. Looking to Evelyn, her face softens. “You alright, baby girl?”
Greta always had a sweet spot for Evelyn. Maybe it’s because Evelyn does stuff like bring her fruit, and cupcakes from the bakery, and changes the oil in her car...
“I’m okay, Greta. Really. It’s just a scratch.” She points to her forehead.
Greta makes atskingnoise. “I need to go fold the laundry upstairs. Behave yourselves, girls.” She pins her eyes on me. “And no more smoking that devil’s lettuce.” She glances at Evelyn. “I can’t believe you let this one corrupt you.”
Humming her favorite Spanish song, she leaves the kitchen.
Evelyn and I break down into hysterics.
It Feels like Living
Salem
Present
Surely texting Lily at all hours of the night is against some sort of rule for a man who wishes to become a priest. Even the fact that I’ve started calling her Lily feels comfortable, intimate, personal. Technology is amazing, though. Just the fact that she can text me pictures of her photographs is somehow almost like being there. Even at two in the morning. I don’t think about the repercussions of the line I’m toeing. Not right now. Not tonight.
It doesn’t feel like sinning.
It feels like living.
Lily: You mentioned once that you weren’t a virgin. Please elaborate.
We’ve been texting all night—ever since she sent me a picture she took today of a nun walking out of a church with white earbuds hanging from her face. She replaced her head with a painting of an angel, reminiscent of Michelangelo or DaVinci. The juxtaposition between the modern, music-listening nun and the renaissance painting is strikingly beautiful. All of her art is exquisite.
Me: What do you want to know?
This is, most definitely, dangerous territory.
Lily: Everything.
Sighing, I click her contact profile and hit the FaceTime button. Again, I marvel at the technology. FaceTime wasn’t really a thing yet before I enrolled in seminary school, and I don’t think I’ve ever used it. It connects and her face pops up, glowing from the light of the phone. She’s in bed, the phone above her face. I have to distract myself to avoid thinking of what it would be like to be that phone.
“You’re up late,” she jokes, smiling.
I see the tiny rectangle on the top right. I’m propped up, also in bed. I’m even wearing an old sweatshirt from undergraduate. My hair is sticking out in all directions.
“Can’t sleep,” I answer. “How was your week?”
“It was all right.“ Her voice is monotone, telling me it was anything butfine. “How was yours? How’s Notre Dame? How’s Father Monsignor?”
I chuckle. “Fine, fine, and also fine.” It’s endearing how much she wants to meet Father Monsignor. I talk about him a lot—and it seems to have rubbed off on her. “To use your word.”
She twists her lips to the side. “Very funny.”
I see her shift in bed, crawling lower until she's nuzzled in her comforter. Jekyll walks across the frame, snuggling into the space between her shoulder and head. I notice the Paris newspaper lying next to her—Le Monde—the obituary section open.
“What’s with the newspaper? Do you love dead things so much that you read the obituary for fun?” It’s supposed to be a teasing comment, but she winces slightly. Blowing out a steady breath, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Lily.” I pause. She doesn’t say anything. “You’re checking for Evelyn.” It’s not a question.
She nods. “I figure the news of her death would at least make it to the obituary,” she answers, barely audible. “Every time I open it, my heart breaks just a little bit.” There’s a second of tense silence, and then— “So, are you going to tell me about your past life or what?”
