FICTION
In Him We Have Redemption
The red-painted curb shouted its rebuke, although she bravely ignored it. Sleet from earlier that night had frozen in the gutter. Her old tires crunched bitter bites of water glass, as loud as a crash. Her right hand raised the transmission lever to PARK. Her left foot depressed the parking brake. Mittened fingers fumbled with jingling keys, which surely sounded like an alarm to anyone on that deserted street. She shook, breathed deep, opened the car door.
Night’s chill web gripped and contorted her thin limbs with shivers. Just a few short paces to go, she thought, while navigating the slick sidewalk. Once across, she lowered to one knee, then two, slowly, in the crackling cold turf.
Crawling closer, knee by knee, then pausing, she looked around in near darkness, finally settled. Before the Christ Child in the crèche, she knelt, clutching a tear-stained envelope above frosty straw scattered on brittle winter grass. Cautiously, she began to tuck the envelope beneath the manger.
Ten feet away, a car zoomed past the church. She flinched from its sweeping headlights. Her shaking hand lurched, paused, started to pull back the envelope.
And then Mary caught her eye: Mother Mary, with her consoling gaze, as Joseph stood watch, lantern in hand.
Her tense hand relaxed. Eyes now transfixed on the Christ Child, she laid the envelope to rest in a better place: within the manger, alongside Jesus.
“My daughter,” she sighed.
Her confession, anonymous save to the Christ Child, was a first step.
Antiques
“Son,” says a rattling voice, “I’ve got one for you.” A comical wink from behind thick lenses, which reflect reds and greens from adjacent decor.
“Yes, father?” A kind, inquisitive glance through clear blue eyes.
“Son, what if — just supposing — what if you become a priest one day?” A deep breath, then: “Would I need to call you ‘Father’?” Owl eyebrows rise above black frames.
“Father —”
A pause, a frown. Resignation through clear blue eyes. A smile rises with a lump in the throat. “Yes, father, I guess that you would have to call me ‘Father,’ wouldn’t you.”
A gentle smile tightens cracked lips. Eyebrows withdraw. Eyes close. Light coughing follows a chuckle.
“Hey, father,” — young face now deadpan — “wouldn’t that mean I’d have to call you ‘My Son’?”
A pause, a frown. Realization behind thick lenses. Rattling voice erupts into laughter, loud and barking. “Heh, my son, I guess you would!”
A longer pause. Eyebrows rise again, follicles flicking eyeglass frames one could buy in the antiques store just down the road past the hospice.
An arm, clad in black, reaches through a bedside railing draped in garland. Younger hand, black-cuffed, cups older. Soft palm presses down on parchment, carefully avoiding the IV tape.
It’s been months since “But, father, I am a priest” was said; out of respect, never again.
A week hence, on Saint Stephen’s Day, young hands gently release old, lift the stole from the nightstand, drape it around young shoulders, and un-pocket the chrism vial.
Charity Director
You were left wet and questioning.
Rude. Unforgivable. He had to have seen.
He laughed. You know it.
“Oh no! Mister Joseph!” cry three scattering boys, each trying to keep their parcels dry.
“— Well!” You pause. “Gosh darn!” And you manage a throaty laugh, all the while biting your cheek, forcing a scandalous tirade down, down. For the sake of the children. For the sake of the Season. “Stuff happens, kids!”
But your voice rings false to your brittle ears. And probably to theirs, also.
Both of your arms full of fresh loaves in paper sleeves. Taking the inside path adjacent to the street is always good practice when walking with the young. And you, without your overcoat, draped uselessly over a chair inside the homeless shelter. You were dashing out to your car, only a half block from the door.
The overcoat would have saved your now-filthy shirt and slacks, but not the bread. Jesus in the flesh could not have shielded you from that gutter shower, gift of the UPS truck, now onward to a delivery of something, some things.
As it was, all you could do was turn your back, too late, toward the torrent. Your favorite elf hat, splashed off your head, now wilts in the slushy dark snowplow muck next to the sidewalk.
“C’mon, guys,” you manage, “at least the food you’re carrying is okay. Let’s get it inside,” just before you grind your teeth.
Merry Christmas, my ass. I hope that driver dies.
Mark is a published fiction author and PhD biochemist. When not reading or writing, he supervises a fraud investigation team for a major academic publisher. Mark and his wife raised two successful daughters (one in grad school overseas; wedding plans for the other) and are nudging their teenage son toward university. Mark is a member of the Catholic Writers Guild.
Next (John S. Walsh) >
< Previous (Brian G. Smith)
Image is in the Public Domain. Modified by Veronica McDonald.
Heart of Flesh Literary Journal 