Ana presents the original prologue of her time travel romance.
Father Dominic stood at the foot of
the open grave and raised his hand for the final benediction just as another
squall of ice-edged rain blasted through the old churchyard. He stopped, mopped
his brow and wondered if the Heavenly Host were complaining about the soul he
was ushering into their eternal care.
Dust rag in hand, Roswyn Littlejohn
had greeted him on the day he started ministering to the working class Irish of
South Boston. He'd quickly learned she served a vengeful and demanding
god.
Now her casket sat on a flat-topped
mound of dirt and rock unearthed by four glum-faced workmen. Their picks and
shovels leaned like hired mourners against the crude headstone.
“Amen.” He signaled for the internment
to begin.
The workmen slid ropes under her
coffin and lugged it to the tomb-shaped hole that had contained the remains of
her daughter and son-in-law for nearly sixteen years. Grumbling and grunting,
they played out the ropes that lowered the casket until one lost his grip.
The box landed with a sickening
thud.
Father Dominic and the four
laborers peered anxiously into the chasm.
As if
pushed by an invisible hand, Roswyn’s box slid slowly to the center and
dropped onto its side between the two decaying palls. In life, she'd stood between her daughter and her daughter's husband. She seemed just as determined in death.
“The devil’s touch,” the head
workman intoned superstitiously.
Wide-eyed,
his fellows nodded.
“You finish this, Father,” he
continued. “We’ll not stay longer.”
Father Dominic didn’t order them to
come back. His pledge to
honor Roswyn's wishes had been exacted in return for her silence about a night
long ago, the night he had had been tempted.
He had always hoped he’d find peace
when the old woman died. Now that feeling eluded him.
He pitched a dozen shovelfuls of
dirt into the hole. Then he remembered—Roswyn’s granddaughter was still in the
church. She had insisted on staying after the service.
Angel Foster had been like his
flesh and blood since she was orphaned to her grandmother’s care. Barely a year
old, she’d sat in a rusty stroller while Roswyn scrubbed the rectory floors. By
the time she was three, she was trimming candlewicks in the sacristy. She spent
as many hours in his company as her humorless caregiver permitted. He delighted
in her endless questions about fate and free will as much as he sought to
soften the harshness of her home life.
The slim, young woman knelt still
as a statue in a shadowy corner of the empty sanctuary.
He rustled his vestments to avoid
startling her.
“Is it done?” Angel lifted her
veil.
“Yes, my child.” He held out his
hand. “Tis well you stayed inside. A cruel wind
blows this night.”
She slipped her fingers between
his, leaned against his protective bulk and jerked back. “Father, you’re
soaked. You must go to the rectory and warm yourself at once.”
“I’m fine.” He patted her hand.
“You’re not fine,” she replied
indignantly. “The hem of your cassock is dirty. Oh, Father, did you fall in?”
“No. I was helpin’ the others so
they could get out of the rain.” He cleared his throat. “Angel, there are
things that must be said.”
“Then say them. I’m not a
child.”
“True. You are not. Angel, yer granny
left everything to the Church. The house isn’t worth much, and the Bishop has decided to raze it for a new parking lot. The furnishings,
therefore, are yers to take.”
“These are all I want.” She
tightened her grip on three framed pictures. “Give to the needy and bulldoze
the rest. I never want to see any of it again.”
“Very well,” he said soothingly.
They resumed their slow recessional. “Have ye decided what ye will do now?”
“I have a room at the YWCA and
enough credits to graduate early.”
“Did ye speak with Mr. O’Shaunessey
about being his check-out girl?”
“And let him feel me up in the back
room again? I’d rather starve.”
“Oh, dear.” He’d heard rumors, but
few parish teens were as outspoken as Angel. “With yer head for numbers, I
thought it would be a good match. No matter. In no time ye will meet a nice
Catholic man to marry, have a houseful of wee ones, and yer life will be full.
Twill give me great joy to officiate at that ceremony.”
“No. My life is mine to do as I say
now.” She trembled, but he recognized it was from fervor, not from fear. “I
mean no disrespect, Father, but I want more out of life. I want to wear
something other than mission box clothes. I want a job that folk will respect.
I want to go to France and see where Saint Joan crowned the Dauphin.” Her
voice grew stronger. “I will sleep ‘til noon on Sundays, and you’ll be stiff in
your grave before I have a ‘houseful of wee ones,’ because I will never, ever
get married.”
“Remember, child,” he admonished,
“tis God who guides yer life.” He regretted his perfunctory, sanctimonious
response. She had already been through so much in her short life. “I’m counting
to five. Whose day is this?”
“February 9th.” She
answered before he got to three. “Appollonia, patron saint of toothaches and
dentists.”
“On the button, as usual.” He
chuckled and cleared his throat again. “I have the Bishop’s permission to grant
five thousand dollars towards yer granny’s hospital expenses. It won’t wipe
them clean, but it will buy ye time to find yer way.”
“Bless you, Father.” Her big, blue-gray eyes glistened, but he
knew she would not cry.
“Have you been plagued by dreams
since she died?”
“No, Father.” The knuckles of the
hand holding her pictures turned stark white.
“Oh, that’s fine.” Silently, he
prayed the picture glass would not crack and cut her.
All too soon they reached the front
doors. He thought about explaining what had happened in the grave, but it was almost dark, and her room was twelve long blocks away.
And he had not yet reclaimed his equanimity. “God goes with you, Angel Foster.
I’ll watch for you next Sunday.” He drew the sign of the Blessed Cross on her
forehead.
She picked up her small, battered
suitcase and walked out into the storm. The uneven hem of her shabby, gray coat
flapped cruelly against her legs.
He waited on the church steps, just
in case she needed an encouraging wave.
To his dismay, she stopped in front
of the churchyard gate.
“There’ll be plenty of time to pay
yer respects,” he called out. “You’d best go along home now.”
She ignored him and walked into the
churchyard.
“Angel, stop. It’s not done.” He
chased after her. When he caught up she was already beside the grave.
“You said when Granny Roswyn died we wouldn’t have to listen to her any more,” she accused. “But you always
did what she wanted.”
He seized on the first platitude
that rose to his lips. “Remember, child, love is built on forgiveness.”
“She never forgave them,” she shouted, pointing down
at the mildewed, worm-eaten boxes. “And she never loved me. But at least she
was honest.” She pulled away from him.
“Come back inside, Angel,” he pleaded. “I can
explain.”
“You mean you’ll tell me more
lies.” Her voice was full of loathing. “You never cared about any of us,
Father.” She turned, darted through the rectory gate and disappeared.
The wind swirled savagely around him. Its strength
made him feel small and insignificant, and its pitch evoked Roswyn Littlejohn’s
shrill, self-righteous voice.
He welcomed the penance. He picked up the shovel and
pitched earth onto her coffin.
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