Sitting, staring; the mercurial droplets draining in beads and streams down the glass. The little one watches. She cocks her head, touches the top of her face to the cool surface. She watches her breaths stick to the glass in blurry moist frosts, then evaporate swiftly into nothing.
The background is a blur. They pass trees and grass and signs directing the way towards the towns that lay ahead. Cornfields. Wheat, barley. A lone house standing beside the encroaching road, old and dying, watching over the crops it struggles to keep alive. Her vision refocuses away from the silent rain: her eyes follow the structure as they speed by. A relic of a different time. The storm threatens to destroy it.
It disappears behind the tree line.
"I'm gonna kill the son of a bitch." Her father's voice brings her to reality. "I'm gonna kill him and I don't care."
"No, you're not." Her mother smokes a cigarette as she speaks. Calm, collected. Drunk. An outsider wouldn't know, but the little one knows. She knows where her mother keeps the rancid flask, the hidden bottles. "Cain't kill no one's already dead."
"I ain't talking 'bout daddy!"
"You wanna kill Hickler."
The man mumbles under his breath as he drives.
"I said, you wanna kill Hickler."
"Maybe I do!"
"Hickler didn't get us in this damn mess. Yer daddy's the one done put us through this."
"Shut up."
Her mother sighs in the cloud of smoke. She leans her head back and closes her eyes. Her rotten teeth show themselves as a smile stretches wide across her face.
The child watches, her gaze alternating between the man and the woman who sits beside him.
Then she turns back to the window. The rain, falling at random,
beautiful and chaotic, mechanical in its lifelessness as it flows down the
surface of the glass.
An hour later they are in the city.
The streets are still busy with walkers despite the downpour.
A marching colony of black suits and hats and umbrellas. Dark
upon dark against the gray light, the washed-out stone buildings, the tattered
sidewalk. Moving in flows and rapids, up and down without ceasing. Along the
walkways water streams down the road, grimy and clouded, into the drains, the vast
underground veins of a metropolis.
They park along the street and get out of the car. The man
attempts to open a dilapidated umbrella. He curses as the rain soaks him, as
the woman and the girl stand under the covering of a building,
staring with pitiless humor. Finally he gives up.
They walk. Down past the onlookers, against the current of the
droves. They turn at a crosswalk, the man leading, and enter in through
the glass doors of a building. The man steps up to the front desk; he asks
angrily where Hickler's office is. The woman working looks the soaked and
dripping figure before her up and down. She soon leads him down a hall. He
beckons his wife and the girl to follow.
In the office. Paintings hung on the wall, splatters of color
portraying nothing identifiable. A bookshelf. Hickler sits at his desk, the
large window behind him. The girl looks out. She sees the pregnant clouds
sagging low in the sky, gray and dark. Hickler stands to greet the man. They
briefly shake hands.
Then the arguing begins. It starts off slowly, somewhat ordered; it quickly accelerates.
"Now, you listen up," Hickler says. "It ain't my
fault that your father didn't write you in. No one can change that. You
understand? It ain't my fault."
"Be quiet!"
The woman takes a step to the bookshelf. She peruses the titles,
pulling them out and reading the backs and then pushing them back in.
The child walks to the window. Outside stands structure after structure, skyscrapers tall and straight, pointing to the heavens. Across the street she sees the spire, the cross.
“You’re the only one can fix this,” her father says. “If you ain’t gonna fix it, what the hell am I payin’ you for?”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“I’d say it is.”
“I’m a lawyer, not a miracle worker.”
“Well, I guess you better learn how to work miracles then.” He pauses, quiet. Hickler rubs his forehead. After a moment the man speaks: “If we don’t get this sorted out, I’m gonna lose that land. You got that?”
“I can’t—“
“Shut up. I’m gonna lose beautiful, fertile land. And the house.”
“That house is falling apart.”
“It can be fixed, damn it!”
The woman chuckles. Her husband shoots her an angry glance. “What’d you say?”
“Nothin’.”
“Oh, I heard somethin’.”
He walks to her. She stands, grinning, one hand on the shelf. A short, silent moment passes, the air thick and heavy, the sound of rain roaring outside. Then he slaps her in the face.
Hickler is unaffected. He sits back and cracks his knuckles. The man returns to his place across the desk.
“Now, where were we?”
The child stands glum and quiet in front of the window. She neither understands the situation or cares. She blocks the raised voices from her mind. When she turns around the three adults are moving out into the hall. They face each other, speaking all at once. The child stays for a moment, viewing with distaste the anger revealed in front of her.
She walks past them. She turns down the way they came, exits out through the front room. The woman who works at the desk does not notice her as she leaves through the swinging doors.
Outside, she steps into the downpour. She lets the water hit her face, her yellow raincoat. She crosses the street with the multitudes.
The spire and cross come into view.
The cathedral stands alone, gothic and old and intricate in its design. A woman carrying her baby enters through the wooden side door. The child follows. Inside, all is dim and quiet. The pews are scarcely occupied. The stained-glass windows let whatever meager light in from outside.
The child has never been in a building like this. The church her family attends in the country is much smaller. She looks up at the ceiling, the massive pillars. At the front stands the marble altar; atop the altar is the monstrance, shaped like a golden star elevated by choirs of angels. In the center rests the spotless Host, silently watching those in the pews.
The child stands in the back. The monstrance catches her gaze. She does not know what it is. The moon, she thinks. As bright as the moon.
She approaches.
Closer, closer. At the front pew someone stops her. An elderly man dressed in bright gold garments foreign to the girl, kneeling. He snaps his fingers at her. “Come, child,” he whispers. “Do not go up there.”
“Why?”
“Shhh. Come here.”
She comes into the pew.
“Why can’t I go up there?”
“Because, it’s off limits.”
“But I want to see the moon.”
“You want to see the moon.” He laughs silently. “You see Him?”
“Where?”
“Up there,” he points. “Right up there is God.”
“I don’t see Him.”
“Yes you do. He is disguised.”
The child watches intently.
“Where are your parents?”
The child points towards the door. She does not look away from the Host.
“Are they outside?”
“Yeah.”
They stay still and quiet.
“When will He come out of disguise?”
“Soon, child. Very soon.”
They wait several minutes. The child looks at the man. His eyes are closed, his hands folded. She turns around and looks back at the door. Noiselessly, she exits the pew.
Outside, it is still raining. The storm is picking up. She hops through the rain, splashing in the puddles.
The people passing her do not seem to take notice. She splashes and smiles and claps her hands.
On the road, water is flooding down. She watches the river, flowing with rapids. A red piece of trash is being swept away before her. Without looking, she runs forward. She jumps off the sidewalk.
She is almost across the road when the car hits her.
It brakes to a stop. The driver jumps out. He sees the small body, the blood. He tries to speak but can’t; he begins to scream. People approach from the sidewalk. They surround the car, the body. The driver screams. “Somebody, call an ambulance! Call a damn ambulance!”
The onlookers stare in shock. They keep their distance.
A single man steps forward. He is large and tall. He cringes as he looks at the corpse, the rain pouring down on him. He mumbles: “Oh, the poor thing. Poor little girl . . ."
He squats down beside her. It takes him a moment to notice the smile. He looks closer.
The girl, on her back, eyes closed, is, ever so slightly, smiling. He soon hears the ambulance and looks back. It is fast-approaching. He faces the child again, her pale complexion contrasting the black road; he stares at her, expecting the eyes to open, her bright face radiating like a star in a night sky