WE STEP INTO ST. PATRICK’S CATHEDRAL THROUGH the side entrance on Fiftieth. No sanctuary from the crowds in here. It’s even more packed than the street. People shuffle through the aisles and slump in the pews, checking their cell phones. But if I look up, toward the soaring buttressed ceiling and the stained-glass windows, all that falls away. Being Jewish doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a dazzling house of God.
Kendall tugs my sleeve and cocks her head toward a woman sitting by herself in a pew. The woman’s eyes are closed and she’s taking deep, in-through-your-nose-out-through-your-mouth breaths.
“What do you think she’s thinking about?” Kendall whispers. The woman bends forward, planting her forehead into her palms. “My guess is, her marriage falling apart.”
“Wow, you went straight there, huh? What if she simply has a headache?”
“Boring.”
“Yeah, well, some people are. We don’t all deserve to be characters in your novel.”
Kendall’s face falls. Shit. I’ve hurt her feelings.
“I didn’t mean . . . ,” I say.
“It’s okay. You just reminded me of something Jamie said the other day, that every moment is full of stories.”
This feels weird, for her to bring up Jamie right now. But of course, why wouldn’t she? Besides, I’ve heard Jamie say that, too.
Kendall tugs my sleeve again and pulls me to the right, deeper toward the heart of the cathedral. We pass one altar, then another. Then she stops.
“This is the one,” she says.
There are two stands full of lit candles, and between them a bronze statue of St. Theresa waits there, watching. I’m not sure if she’s supposed to inspire guilt or hope. Maybe both. (Could be an effective combination, actually.)
The donation box asks for two dollars, and I get the sense the honor system works pretty well here. I dig two dollar bills out of my pocket and slip them in the box. Pick a white candle and drop it into one of the empty blue glass holders. Grab a lighting stick and touch it to a candle that’s already burning, then set mine aflame.
This one’s for my grandmother.
I really miss you, Nanny. You would have loved all the holiday decorations in the city this year. Also, Big E is being extra jerky. Can you give us some suggestions on that?
After I extinguish my stick in a foam-filled box, I look up to see Kendall counting out some coins in the palm of her hand.
“I have a dollar bill plus eighty-seven cents,” she says.
“I’m sure management will spot you the difference.”
Kendall stuffs the money in the slot. She winces each time a coin lands and makes a noise. Nobody else seems to notice, though. Then she grabs a candle and a lighting stick. Surveys the holders. Like it matters which one she chooses. She takes a step to the right and bumps into a boy. He’s maybe ten.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” says Kendall.
“It’s okay,” says the boy. He’s staring at the candles. They light up unmistakable tears in his eyes.
“Are you all right?” I ask him.
“Where are your adults?” Kendall adds. This is, of course, the more appropriate question.
“My mom’s right there,” says the boy, pointing to a woman in the nearest pew. She’s hunched over her phone. “We just came in so she could write an email.”
The kid stares at the candles again.
“Are you going to light one?” Kendall asks.
The boy shakes his head. “I wanted to. For my dad. But Mom won’t give me the money if it’s for him.”
Kendall looks at me with a raised eyebrow. It’s funny that we already have this language. I don’t know her at all, really. But damn if I don’t know what she’s thinking.
Kendall glances at the mom, who’s still engrossed in her correspondence. Then she offers the stick to the boy.
“Here. I paid for that candle. I want you to have it.”
The boy bites his lip and shakes his head. He’s got long bangs that fall across his face. He looks up shyly through them. “My dad’s not dead. He’s just . . . gone.”
We’re silent a moment. Processing what that might mean. Could be a hundred different things that are all pretty much the same.
“Sometimes gone is worse than dead,” says Kendall with a nod. “Take it. Quickly, before she sees.”
He glances furtively at his mom again. Grabs the stick. Lights it from the closest candle. Touches the flame to the fresh one. It takes slowly. At first, I’m worried it’ll just die out and the symbolism will be too much to bear. But then the flame grows and the whole thing blazes.
“Nice job,” says Kendall as he hands her back the stick.
The boy stares at the candle he lit. His features settle into something like relief. He takes a deep breath.
“Winston?”
Here comes Mom. She puts her hands on his shoulders. I was all prepared to hate her. Now that I see her face . . . well, I can’t. She looks loving, but spent.
“Come on, sweetie,” she says, and takes his hand. He lets her. As she leads him away, I keep waiting for him to look back at us. Flash a smile. Mouth the words “thank you.” Anything. Come on, kid. Give us whatever you’ve got.
But they’re gone.
“That was good,” says Kendall as she stares at the flame.
It takes me a few seconds. “Oh. You want that to count.”
She gives me an exasperated look like I’m ten, too. “I am not going to have this argument with you every time one of us does something. Of course it counts!”
“Maybe his father’s a criminal. Or just the world’s biggest asshole. What if the kid needs to let him go and we stopped him from doing that?”
Kendall shrugs. “Could be.” She bites her lip, staring at St. Theresa. I wish she hadn’t insisted on this particular, high-pressure altar. “Could be that doing this helped him let his father go. We’ll never know. But did you see the expression on his face? It meant something to him. That’s all that matters.”
She’s so sure. What choice do I have but to believe it, too?