Find a Critique Partner
Donna Rubio
By Donna Rubio
Mar 9, 2010, 07:07

The river held its victims for a time or for all time. Often the bodies floated away loose, sometimes surfacing, sometimes not.

For some, it might have been better for the river to keep the cadaver. The religious wrestled with the convictions of the church. Lengthy visitations softened the crusted. Delicate priests discouraged burial in holy soil; private meetings changed minds. The grief-stricken never stood a chance against the unwritten papal law. Gravediggers planted the bloated remains along the edge of a barren field.

Every year the church took the indirect approach and condemned that particular sin in an editorial. That year was different. That year street corners were darkened with the robes of nuns who solicited the fear of their faith with black rosaries. 

I kept my eyes on the pavement. But when I tried to cross the street, someone thrust a holy strand into my chest.

“Pray the rosary,” said the hooded servant.

“I’d rather throw myself in the river.”

“Why would you say such an indecent thing?”

“These are indecent times.”

“Not from where I stand.”

“Then stand over here.”

She looked me over, “Nobility still exists,” she said with a smile.

“People aren’t noble, sister. We’re selfish.”

“Selfish men are never wet in November.”

My sleeve dripped in the dark to corner me in her light. I jabbed my way out: “Then your priest must be dry.”

“He’s needed in the church.”

“You mean he’s dusting off the money candles, waxing dollars for every soul you deliver.”

“Belief is free.”

“So is distrust, sister.”

She shook her cloaked head and said in a grainy voice, “There are demons among us, luring the godless to that river.”

“You’d rather they hang themselves with your holy beads?”

“Satan is pleased with you and your words.” She stroked a fold in her habit; her voice lowered: “Suicide is a wicked and ungodly thing.”

“I imagine it’s a relief to the desperate.”

“Desperation is the devil’s handiwork; it bends people away from God.”

“Maybe we don’t need God.”

“Everybody needs God.” She came closer and put a rosary in my hand.

“I’m a recovering Christian,” I said.

I held the holy beads out to her, but she refused them. She curved my fingers around the metal crucifix and clutched my fist with both hands: “Then you need it more than most.”