A few years ago, I belonged to the Legion of Mary, a sad
bunch of Jesus freaks. Now, before mass, I make Saturday
night confessions of nothing. Then choir voices slip
through the evening air, and I smile. Me and my brother,
kneeling after communion. The crucifix turns
its face away. I think of sex. Then mass is over:
Go in peace to love . . . I’m 16. I’m over
all that. I’m completely independent. It’s sad
that nobody else sees this. I see my job as turning
my family upside down, and I’m good at it. After Saturday
night mass, I laugh at monsignor’s wine jokes. My brother
thinks he’s weird. Later, after I’ve gone out, he’ll slip
out to the car and we’ll meet at some party, slipping
our friends a joint but not really talking. The fun is over
too soon, or maybe it never even started. My brother
and I do share a few things, though: closed doors, the sad
aftermath of fights, fear of our father. I go to Saturday
night mass so I can sleep late Sunday. Breakfast turns
my stomach, sitting down with parents who turn
away from each other and ask me to referee. I could slip
out, sit in the cool white church any hour of any day.
There the saints, all dreamy and cold, gaze out over
the pews. Back home, my parents no longer kiss. Sad,
but my mother says, “After a certain age . . .” Oh, brother.
Don’t let me get that way. My father chases my brother,
pins him between the door jamb and the door. He twists and turns
and bursts outside. It’s just my family. No need to look sadly
at me, as if I need pity. It doesn’t happen to me. So much has slipped
away, or maybe I have. I’m drifting like rings in a pool. Over
and over I try to pray, receive the spirit, but another Saturday
comes and goes and still I’m beside myself, watching. Someday
it will come back. While I’m waiting, I listen to my brother:
he mutters and stabs his green walls, plays the same riff over
and over on his guitar. His voice is deeper than Jesus’. He could turn
out to be a rock star. Where would that leave me? Once I was a slip
of a girl, trying to be good. Now, I know just enough to be sad.
What I don’t get is why I’m sad, my brother, resentful.
Which one slipped away first? Get over it, they say, turn the other cheek.
It’s Saturday, time to confess. Tomorrow is a day of rest.
Published in The Ledge, Fall 2001
©Beth Partin 2001. All rights reserved.
