The Saint

“It’s an order.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It is.”

“Are you going to tell me why I’m watering this stick?”

“I told you why. It’s an order.”

“No other reason?”

Søren stroked his bottom lip with his thumb. She never wanted to be a thumb so much in her life.

“That list of questions you wish to ask me that I can’t answer yet …”

“Yeah, what about them?”

“If you water this stick every single day without fail for six months, I’ll answer your questions.”

“You will? All of them?”

“Any question you have for me, no matter how personal or intrusive, I will answer it in six months if you water the stick every single day.”

Every single question? She couldn’t believe it. If he’d offered her a million dollars or the answers to all her questions, she’d pick the answers, hands down.

“So six months is …”

“The day after Thanksgiving,” Søren said. “Rather fitting. I’m sure you’ll be thankful to have finished your task.”

“Forget the stick, I want answers.”

“You’ll have them if you earn them,” he said.

“How will you know if I watered it or not?”

“I’ll know.”

“When do you think you’ll, you know, want to hold up your end of the bargain?” Eleanor tried to keep the nervousness from her voice. In exchange for her eternal obedience, Søren had promised her “everything.” Two months had passed since she’d spoken to him that night at the police station. Did he remember what he’d promised her?

“We shall discuss that part of our agreement when you’re finished watering the stick.”

“Great. I’ll water it right now.”

“I meant when you’re finished watering it … in six months.”

Søren left her standing there staring at the stick as he walked back to the church.

“Hey!” she shouted after him. “Six months?”

“Do as you’re told and we’ll discuss it in six months.”

Eleanor stared down at the stick and looked back up at Søren’s retreating form.

“I hate you!” she yelled after him.

“That stick won’t water itself,” he called back.

She looked back down at the stick in the ground.

“I hate you, too,” she said to the stick. And for good measure, kicked it.

After replanting and watering the now slightly shorter stick, she returned to the church, where Søren put her to work in the fellowship hall annex scrubbing the kitchen and cleaning out the pantries. He’d told her he would inspect her work when she’d finished. She wanted to make him proud of her.

By five o’clock she’d lost almost all the polish on her fingernails. Her hands were rough and chapped from all the scrubbing. Her back ached from sitting on the floor and bending over so much. Still the pantry did look pretty amazing when she’d finished with it. She stood in the middle of the room, admiring her work, when she heard footsteps behind her.

“Good work,” Søren said as he stood in the doorway.

“I could live in this pantry. You could eat off the floor. Or you could if we had any food in it.”

“That will be your next step. This Sunday at the end of Mass, you’ll announce a food drive.”

“I will?”

“You will.”

“In front of the entire church?”

“You have a fear of public speaking?”

“No, I don’t think so. But I’m sixteen and I’m only doing this because the court is making me. I don’t think anyone is going to listen to me.”

“They’ll listen to you. You’ll be speaking from my pulpit and with my permission and on my authority.”

“I’ll guilt-trip my heart out and their pantries.”

“Good. Now you’re done with work for the day. Let’s go into the sanctuary. We’ll start our Spiritual Exercises.”

“Spiritual Exercises? Does my soul have to do push-ups?” she asked as they entered the sanctuary.

“Can it?”

“I don’t know. Pretty sure it’s never tried.”

“The Spiritual Exercises from Saint Ignatius are something like push-ups. They were created to uplift the people doing the exercise, strengthen them and bring them closer to God.”

“So who was Saint Ignatius? I know he founded the Jesuits, but that’s all I know.”

Søren slipped a finger into his collar and pulled out a silver chain. A saint medal hung from it. Eleanor stepped close to Søren and peered at the face on the medal.

“He’s bald,” she said.

“He shaved the top of his head because he felt his hair acted as a barrier between him and God.”

“Wow. Really?”

“No.”

“Can I punch you in the arm?”

“Yes.”

Eleanor punched him in the upper arm. She hit him hard, but he didn’t seem to feel it.

“Thank you.” She shook her hand out. Did he have steel arms under his clerics? She couldn’t wait to find out. “Now are you going to tell me something real about Saint Ignatius?”

“I will tell you the two most important things you need to know about Saint Ignatius. First, he was a saint.”