The Saint(11)

Her mother growled under her breath.

“I don’t even know what that is, but I’m not having this argument with you.”

“Then don’t. I have civil rights. You can’t force me to go to church against my will.”

“As long as you’re underage, and you’re living in my house, I can.”

Elle sat up completely and met her mom’s eyes. Enough joking around. She meant it this time.

“Mom,” she said, her voice as calm and as reasonable as possible, “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

“Church isn’t a game.”

“It isn’t real.”

Her mother said nothing at first but she didn’t leave, either. Bad sign. Her mom wasn’t giving up. Her mom was about to bring out the big gun—guilt.

“Father Greg is officially retiring soon. He’s not coming back. Today is the day the new priest is starting. If the new priest hires someone else to the church’s books, you don’t get free tuition to St. Xavier anymore. I need you to help me make a good impression.”

Elle shrugged. “Don’t care. Send me to public school. No more uniforms.” And no more fights on the bus. No more getting mocked because her dad had been in jail. No more getting teased for her breasts that didn’t seem to want to stop growing. No more blood on her knees.

“Eleanor, I’m serious.”

“Mom, I’m serious. You’re going to have to give up trying to turn me into a junior version of you minus the kid you didn’t want. Go without me. There’s nothing at church for me. Not now. Not ever.”

Elle threw herself back into bed. She knew she hadn’t heard the last of this topic, but maybe winning the battle was the beginning of winning the war. Covering her face with her pillow again, Elle tried to will herself to fall back to sleep.

She waited to hear her mother’s footsteps retreating. But instead of creaking floors, she heard whispered words. Eleanor peeked out at her mother from under her pillow. Too bad her mother hated men so much. Her dad was right. At thirty-three her mother was still young looking and beautiful. At least she could have been beautiful if she tried at all. No makeup. She never did anything with her hair. She wore clothes as baggy as a nun’s habit. Elle might have liked a stepfather. It would be nice to have a man around who actually gave two shits about her.

“Mom? What are you doing?”

“Praying to Saint Monica.” Her mother’s eyes remained closed. She clutched her saint medal in her hand.

“Saint Monica? Was she a martyr or a mystic?”

“Neither. She was a mother.”

“Good. Hate the martyrs.” Stupid virgin martyrs. Between getting married and getting murdered they picked murder. She’d pick a dick over death any day. Why did no one ever offer her those sorts of choices?

“She was the mother of Saint Augustine. He, too, was a willful, disobedient child. He had a mistress and fathered a child out of wedlock. He partied and played and didn’t care at all for the things of God. But his mother—Monica—was a Christian and she prayed and prayed for him. Prayed with all her might her child would see the truth of the Gospel and convert. God granted her prayer and Saint Augustine is one of the doctors of the church now.”

“The church has doctors?”

“It does.”

“Why is it still so sick, then? They must be really crappy doctors.”

Her mother stopped talking again, stopped whispering, stopped praying. But still she didn’t leave.

“Elle …” Her mother’s tone was softer now, kinder, conversational. Not a good sign.

“What. Now. Mother?”

“Mary Rose told me the new priest is supposed to be very handsome.”

“Mom, he’s a priest. That’s gross.” The pillow was once more firmly planted on her face.

“And he rides a motorcycle.”

Elle pushed the pillow off her face.

“A motorcycle?”

“Yes.” Her mother smiled. “A motorcycle.”

“What kind? Not some no-thrust piece-of-crap crotch rocket from Japan, is it?”

Her mother shook her head.

“Something Italian.”

“A Vespa? Those are scooters, not motorcycles.” Elle giggled at the image of a priest in a collar on the back of a little Vespa scooter.

“No. Something that started with a D. Du-something.”

Elle’s eyes widened.

“A Ducati?”

“That was it.”

She knew about Ducatis but had never seen one up close. She’d kill to have a Ducati between her thighs. All that power. All that freedom. What she wouldn’t give …

Would it kill her to go to church one more day? One more hour? One more Mass? She could see the bike, maybe touch it, then get out again.