"Lux Umbra Dei"

   She knew the way; she’d been doing this for years. Decades, maybe? She couldn’t remember when she first started being responsible for this particular task. A long time ago, that’s when.

   Today she had a canvas carry-bag with her. The church had been running low on votive candles, although there had been very few coins in the money box on the votive stand for quite a while now. People were burning the candles without donating? That never used to happen… But she didn’t bother the priest about it. She just paid the difference out of her own pocket when she reordered more candles.

   The most recent order had just arrived, so she was taking them to the church. At one time, she been able to pick them up easily at a local church supply store, but it had closed a few years back and there were no others nearby. She missed going there and seeing all the church items and religious statues and paintings. They also had very nice little greeting cards with Bible verses on them, which she bought—thankfully in bulk--to send to friends, most of whom lived far away now. For quite a long time, she had also been sending them to the invalids and shut-ins in her church. She smiled wryly at the thought that she might be joining those ranks soon. And who would send cards to her when she could no longer get about? She didn’t know—the congregation had steadily dwindled over the years. But as her age advanced, her energy and mobility retreated. Thank goodness she could still do these tasks for her beloved church. She just walked more slowly, due to her unsteady legs.

    As she turned a corner near to the church building, she saw a group of young teenage boys across the street, doing nothing. Why aren’t they in school? she wondered. She tried to schedule her trips to the church when the nearby school was in session; she preferred negotiating quiet streets, when her slowness wasn’t a problem. It was very busy and noisy after school let out; she avoided being there at that time of day. It wasn’t a holiday either, so she didn’t know why the boys weren’t in class. Seemed like a lot of them to have played hooky all at the same time—then her mind caught her up briefly, as so often happened: did people use that term anymore? “Hooky”? Language changed, but she wasn’t always aware of the changes…actually, she was seldom if ever aware of them. Probably no one said “hooky” any more…

   Anyway, was it an early dismissal day? No---if it was, there would be a lot more young people walking home, going into the shops, standing around and talking with each other. Today there was only this small group of teenage boys.

   All this went through her mind in a flash as she kept walking. She barely glanced in their direction. She had discovered that looking too long might cause a reaction. She hoped they would ignore her as she walked down the street toward the church. Maybe she could reach it, and disappear inside in time…

   No such luck. They started talking and pointing at her, and even laughing.

   “Hey, old lady, can’t you move any faster?”

   “What’s up, lady? Goin’ to visit your boyfriend?” This was followed by howls of laughter, as the speaker was slapped on the back for this gem of wittiness.

   “Get out of our neighborhood! You don’t belong here!”

   It was true that the neighborhood around the church had changed dramatically since she started attending the church, when she was much younger. She used to know almost all the people who lived there. Now she knew no one.

   The church then had been filled with people: families with children, speaking many languages and celebrating many traditions, but brought together in their love of God and their dedication to his church. Where had all those families gone? she wondered. Where were those children now? They were completely different from the young people standing across the street from her.

   She continued walking towards the church, hoping that they’d get bored with teasing her and leave her alone. But it got worse. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a couple of them start across the street towards her. She tried to walk a bit faster, but knew that if she went too fast, she could fall. Her doctor had told her, “No more falls, or you’ll have to use a walker!” She hated the thought. She might be getting old, but she wasn’t elderly—yet. No matter what her doctor said.

   If she pretended not to see them, maybe the boys would let her alone. She faced forward and kept on walking, but suddenly she felt a jerk which almost caused her to fall backwards. One of the boys had grabbed at her canvas carry-bag.

   “Hey, what’s in here, grandma? Something for me? Did you bring a present for me?” The whole group laughed at that, from both sides of the street.

   “Please,” she said, “I’m just going to the church. There’s nothing in there, just something for the church.”

   The boys laughed again, as most of the group drifted over to where she stood, trembling a little. The first speaker yanked the bag again and this time it slipped off her arm. She tried to grab it back but nearly lost her balance again. The boy who had taken the bag opened it and looked inside. He stopped and his face went blank, then he threw it back at her quickly. As she tried to catch it, to prevent the candles from hitting the ground and maybe breaking, she fell heavily, awkwardly, crying out when she landed. Her cries were drowned out by sneering laughter. She felt sharp pains in various places and looked at him in fear.

   “This is boring,” the first speaker said to the others, as he gave her an inscrutable look. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

   From the ground, she watched them saunter away, laughing. Despite the pain from hitting the sidewalk, she was immensely relieved that they were leaving her so soon. Thank you, God…

***************

   Her doctor scolded her; she’d been seeing him for years, and he treated her a little like an elderly aunt.

   “Thank goodness you didn’t break anything, although I have no idea why not! But you are badly bruised and will be in a lot of pain for some time. Bed rest for a while until the bruises go away—no extended trips outside your home!” He was adamant about that and sent her home with some mild pain killers. A kind neighbor volunteered to do her grocery shopping for a while and also bring in her mail.

   While she was recuperating, her priest came to visit her. He was shocked to hear what had happened and suggested that someone else take over the candle and votive stand responsibilities. But at this, her natural stubbornness asserted itself. She’d been doing this for years and intended to continue until she couldn’t manage it any longer! He reluctantly gave in, but insisted that she confine her trips to Saturdays, when school was not in session. She was struck by the simple solution and readily agreed. He’d then asked her if she had recognized her assailant, but she shook her head. The boy was completely unfamiliar to her; she had never seen him before. The priest expressed disappointment; he said that his experience had been that, when a young person was caught in wrongdoing and made to suffer the consequences, there was a good chance that they might change their ways. He left on this note, giving her something to think about. She could only visualize the boy vaguely, but she knew she’d never forget the expression on his face after he’d tossed the bag back at her.

***********

   A few weeks later she made her first trip back to the church. It was threatening rain that Saturday; she should have stayed home, but knew it was past time to check the votive stand. If they ran out of candles, people coming to pray would be disappointed. She felt well enough to go and had hoped the rain would hold off until she was finished and back home. Unfortunately, it started while she was on her way there; she just made it into the narthex before it began to come down heavily. I’ll be here a while, she thought. No need to hurry now!

   She made her usual prediction as she neared the stand: the upper right-hand corner candle insert would definitely need replacing. Yep, she was right—burned empty as always. Someone must really like that spot, she noted. Can’t blame ‘em—I always use the one in the opposite corner, don’t I? Guess I’m not the only obsessive one. She’d have to remember that example for the next time she and her doctor argued about her behavior.

   She finished refilling the candle holders and put the empty inserts into her bag, to throw away later. After unlocking and looking in the money box, she decided there wasn’t enough to remove; it was only a few dollars in coins. No need to take out that small of an amount. She’d wait another couple of Saturdays.

   It was still raining hard--she could actually hear the faint sound of raindrops hitting the church roof and very little light came through the stained glass windows. She decided to wait a while before going home; perhaps it would clear up, or at least subside into only a drizzle. Her umbrella could keep her fairly dry, but steady rain made it hard to see to walk safely. At times like this, she wondered if maybe she should get a walker…she made a face at the thought.

   She picked up her carry-bag and went to her usual pew, on the other side of the church from the votive stand. She kept a couple of small pillows there, to ease the occasional pains in her legs and back; they were helpful now, to cushion the fading bruised places, which were still a bit sore. She settled herself, with the bag on her lap, and said a few prayers. “When in Rome,” she thought, and then laughed at herself. Really, the things that flit through my mind…

   The quietness and dimness of the church and the light, regular sound of the raindrops soon lulled her to sleep.

   Something caused her to waken all at once. She didn’t move for a moment, trying to recall where she was, and then the uncertainty sharpened into focus. She was in church, it was still dark inside because of the rain clouds, and someone was walking towards the votive stand. She stayed still and watched, not wanting to disturb someone else’s prayer time. They wouldn’t be able to see her in the cloud-caused dim light—she could only make them out because of the little wall sconces near the stand.

   The person paused in front of the stand for a moment, and then started to do something. Instead of lighting one of the candles, however, they leaned over, fumbling with something below the stand. From the clinking sounds, she guessed that they were doing something with the money box--putting coins in? No, it sounded like the little door at the back of the money box being opened. But she and the priest had the only keys! This certainly wasn’t the priest—was someone picking the lock? Then she heard the familiar slithering sound of coins being poured out. Someone was taking the candle money! Someone was stealing from the church! She was angered and indignant but didn’t move. She’d heard too many horror stories about what happened to people who tried to stop robbers; she’d seen too many violent altercations on the city streets. But she was disappointed that it was too dark in the church to make out any details about the thief, so that she could report it to the priest and the police.

   There were more sounds: the back of the money box closing, the box being returned to its place. The thief would leave quickly now, she expected, but that did not happen. Instead, there was silence for a bit, and then she heard the sound of a match being struck. She watched as the upper right-hand corner candle flamed into life. The figure then bowed its head and stood still. Without thinking about what she was doing, she clutched the carry-bag to her chest, got to her feet, and moved quietly down the pew until she came to the center aisle. She started to hear different sounds, bits of softly spoken words. She crossed the aisle to get closer; the words became distinguishable.

   “…sorry, so sorry…not for me, for my mom…I’m sorry…” The figure bowed again and then turned away from the votive stand toward the front entrance. As she walked closer, the sound of her steps made the person turn in her direction and freeze in a half crouch, fists clenched.

   At that moment, the light came streaming in through the rose window. She thought of several things at once: the clouds breaking up, letting the light go through; the breathtaking beauty of so many colors falling across the stone floor, the pews, the votive stand; and a young man’s face. A very young man—actually a boy, with a very familiar-looking face. She suddenly realized that she was looking at the boy who had yanked away her carry-bag a few weeks ago. An intense fear washed over her as she noted his defensive stance, and then vanished as quickly as it had come. Why is that? she wondered. Why am I not afraid any more? And then she saw what had caught her eye, unconsciously—the glimmer of tears on his face, and an expression of guilt and shame.

   The light coming through the window widened as the clouds broke up more and more—widened further until the bright colors fell on her, too. The boy squinted, blinked, and then focused on where she was standing; he straightened up, and she saw instant recognition in his eyes. They both stood silently, staring at each other. We’re inside a rainbow, she thought obliquely. God’s rainbow. God’s promise. Why?

   She moved closer, half-expecting him to run away, but he didn’t. The clouds shifted again and the area of colored light shrunk, but still surrounded the two of them.

   There was a short silence. “You took the candle money,” she finally said, matter-of-factly. “You’ve been taking it for a while, haven’t you?”

   He looked at her in fear. “Yes,” he said, “but not for me! It’s for my mom, for her medicine. She’s sick, and the medicine costs a lot of money. More than we have…”

   “Is she going to get better?”

   The boy’s face crumpled and he looked down. “I don’t know. She’s been sick a long time.”

   There was more silence as she watched tears roll down the boy’s face. His fists clenched again, but she ignored it this time. Dear Lord, what should I do? she thought dispassionately—and then she knew. The colored lights coming through the window intensified briefly and then dimmed.

   She leaned forward and spoke quietly. “May I come and see your mother?” He looked up apprehensively. “No, not to tell on you. Just for a visit, to see how she’s doing?” She hesitated for a moment and then took some money out of her carry-bag and put it into his hand. “This is for you, for your mother’s medicine.”

   He stared at the money in his hand, and then said, “No! Take it back!” He dug the coins from the votive stand out of his pocket and tried to hand everything back to her. “I’ve taken that money lots of times---and I hurt you….” He collapsed onto his knees, sobbing.

   She carefully lowered herself to the floor, while holding on to the arm of a pew, and put her hand on his shoulder.

   “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept crying; his hands opened up and the money fell to the floor. She moved her own hand and gently touched his cheek. He looked at her. “How can you be nice to me? I steal from God and I hurt you!”

   “You are sorry. God forgives you—I forgive you.”

   He took a breath and spoke again. “How can you forgive me? I was mean—I laughed at you and I threw that bag at you. You fell over and cried out. I did that.”

   She picked up the money and handed it back to him, folding his hand tightly over it. “I’m all right. And you will be, too. Go home to your mother and take care of her. Come back here and pray any time you like. God sees your candle and hears your prayers. He heard you say that you’re sorry.”

   The boy reached out his other hand tentatively and put it on hers; all their hands were clasped together now. “I’m so sorry, so sorry,” he repeated in a whisper.

   For a while, neither of them moved. Around them, the colors from the windows shone even brighter.

"The Sundress"

"The Sundress" - a short story by Mary M. Isaacs

   Lucy was alone in the house that day. She was visiting with her grandmother while grade school was closed for the summer, and her grandmother had gone out shopping…

   Lucy preferred playing alone. She didn’t have many friends at school because she was so shy. Sometimes she felt invisible there, but it was better than being teased, which happened often--teased for her shyness and plainness. And at home she had to be the perfect child; she could never be just herself.

   Her grandmother’s house was an escape from home and school. No one bothered her there; her grandmother always let her do what she wanted. It was like being in another world. She walked up the steps, across the porch, and through the front door into a sheltered place. In that house, she was safe—she and all her imaginings, where she was in control of everything and no one was in control of her.

   It was an old house, right on the edge of downtown, two stories with both an attic and a basement. Lucy loved everything about it. Downstairs was a roomy entry hall, with leaded windows overlooking the front porch and a side window near the stairs that looked across at the blank white wall of the old hotel next door. From the hall, you could turn and go into the formal parlor or walk straight down a short corridor to the living room, the kitchen, a bathroom, and a back bedroom. Upstairs were five other bedrooms and another bathroom. Her grandmother lived alone, after Lucy’s grandfather died a few years earlier, so she rented the upstairs rooms to boarders to help make ends meet. There was Mr. Johnson in Room 4, for example. It was the smallest and plainest room, with an iron bedstead and a simple rag rug on the floor, and Mr. Johnson had lived there for as long as Lucy could remember. She never knew his first name. He was a quiet man and was gone all day. Her grandmother did not offer meals or allow hot plates in the rooms, so the boarders went out to eat. The other people always seemed like strangers, but Mr. Johnson belonged.

   The upstairs bedrooms varied in size and furnishings. Lucy played in whichever ones weren’t rented, especially the one with the apricot-colored satin brocade bedspread. Sometimes she took it off the bed and wore it, pretending that she was a princess in a beautiful ballgown. She wrapped herself in its heavy, slick folds and walked around slowly, stopping to look at herself in the big mirror over the dressing table. She played by herself for hours, while her grandmother did housework, cooked, or went shopping. Lucy didn’t like the upstairs bathroom, so she never used it; the floor was creaky and uneven, and it made Lucy nervous to go in there. But from time to time, her grandmother would unlock the door next to the bathroom and let her go up the steep, rickety stairs to the attic. There were interesting things up there: trunks that Lucy rummaged through and odd pieces of furniture no longer used in the rest of the house. Sun came in through several small windows, but the attic always seemed dim and mysterious. She felt especially secluded there; except for her grandmother, no one in the world knew where she was. The basement, on the other hand, was dusty, dreary, and overrun with spiders. She never went there.

   That afternoon, Lucy was playing in the formal parlor, which was right by the front door and seldom used. The door was usually kept open, but the room was saved for special occasions. Lucy played in there whenever she wanted to, however. Her grandmother never minded, and Lucy always put everything away where it belonged. There was a fancy horsehair sofa, a baby grand piano, a bobcat skin rug, and a huge, old-fashioned desk with two enormous, heavy doors that opened outwards. Lucy liked to play in the parlor on warm afternoons. The bobcat skin rug, stuffed head and all, was on the floor in the middle of the room. Lucy liked to lie on it and touch the silky fur. She always looked at the pretend eyes and put her fingers in its open mouth to feel the teeth and fangs. Today she was wearing a new dress which her aunt had sent to her for her ninth birthday. It was a short, white, sleeveless sundress, with red and white striped kick pleats on the sides. Lucy loved her new dress and wore it as often as possible. While she sprawled on the rug, she could feel the soft bobcat fur on her bare arms and legs.

   Lucy looked up as her grandmother appeared at the parlor door, pulling a rolling wire shopping cart. “Lucy, I have to go to the store to get some things for supper. The boarders are all out, and I will lock the front door. Don’t go out or open the door to anyone until I come home.”

   “Okay, gramma!” said Lucy. She heard her grandmother go out the front door and shut it afterwards. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock, and then the noise of the shopping cart rolling across the porch and bumping down the steps. After things became quiet, Lucy looked at the bobcat again, wondering how it had gotten caught. Where had it lived? Who had caught it? Why was it there in her grandmother’s house? She rested her head on the bobcat’s furry one, like a pillow, and thought about her questions.

   All of a sudden she heard footsteps moving around above her; then she heard the creaking of the wooden stairs as someone came down them. Lucy froze. No one was supposed to be in the house! When did one of the boarders return? Why hadn’t she or her grandmother heard them come in? Or had they been here all along? Maybe it was Mr. Johnson—that would be okay! But maybe it wasn’t him… She looked up at the open parlor door and wondered if she had time to close it.

   She didn’t. The next moment there he was, standing in the doorway: the newest boarder. She had barely even met him. He looked at her silently for a long moment, and then said, “Is your grandmother here?” Lucy wondered why he hadn’t heard her grandmother leave and lock the door. Or had he?

   He was wearing a knee-length terry cloth bathrobe; the belt was untied, so it was hanging open. He had placed his arms on both sides of the door frame and was leaning forward, which pulled the robe open even further. He wore nothing underneath. His whole body was hairy, and Lucy saw everything. She was too startled to say anything more than, “No, she’s out, but she’ll be back soon.” Then she turned her face away and looked back down at the bobcat’s head. She hoped that he would leave and go back to his room, but he didn’t. He said, “I’ll wait,” and then came into the parlor and sat down on the horsehair sofa, very close to her. He didn’t say anything more, but just sat there, looking at her.

   All Lucy could think was, "I have to get out of here!" After a moment, she stood up as calmly as possible and walked out of the parlor, even though what she really wanted to do was run. She turned and went down the hall, past the bathroom, and into her grandmother’s bedroom. It was dark in there because the shades were drawn. Lucy walked quietly around the bedroom door and into the closet, standing as far back as she could among the hanging clothes. She didn’t shut the bedroom door because it made noise, and then he would know where she was. And that door had no lock. But she did pull the closet door partway shut.

   Looking down at what she wore, she became worried. The white sundress almost glowed in the dark. She realized how easy it would be for someone opening the closet door to see her hiding there, as her grandmother’s clothes didn’t hang low enough to completely cover her. And, of course, her pale legs showed, all the way down to her sandals.

   Then she heard it: the soft sound of bare feet coming down the short hall. Because the bedroom door was standing open, she could tell when the footsteps stopped at the door. She knew that he was looking into the darkened bedroom. If he looked around the bedroom door, he would see that there was a closet; and if he looked in the closet…he would see her.

   Lucy held her breath and didn’t move, although she was trembling all over. Her thoughts raced wildly: “Someone please come home and make him go away! Gramma, Mr. Johnson, anyone!” Trying desperately to think herself truly invisible, to melt into the hanging clothes, into the closet walls; to stifle her breathing and blink out of existence there. To stop time so she could run away—why hadn’t she run out the front door and down the street until she found her grandmother? Why had she run back to the bedroom closet, from which there was no escape? She was trapped. And no one was there to save her.

   Now she heard nothing at all. Had he left to go back upstairs and she had missed the sounds? Should she leave the closet and look around the bedroom door? Or was he still standing there, totally silent, waiting for her to show herself? If she did, what would happen then? She had no idea what, but she was filled with dread. Would he grab her? What would he do to her? She was almost afraid not to find out. Lucy reached for the closet doorknob--but then hesitated...

*****************

   ...the cursor hovered over the button for a moment, and then Lucy clicked “send”. She’d done it—her story was on its way, the creative writing class assignment finished only hours before the midnight deadline. It would have been sent much sooner if she hadn’t hesitated so long. But she’d been nervous, sending in this story about an event that had stayed with her for so many years. Even just thinking about it made her feel a little peculiar in her stomach. If only she knew more about that day…writing about it had brought back many memories, but no remembrance of what had actually happened. She never could remember that. But the story had poured out of her--right up to the missing ending.

   The students had been asked to write a fictional story about an unexpected event. The assignment itself was unexpected, coming as it did on the first day of instruction, but the professor had been delayed returning from speaking at a writer’s conference. The TAs weren’t prepared to lead the class themselves, so they just moved up the first assignment and hoped for the best. Most of the students had been excited by the fact that each of the TAs would pick out a story to run in the English Department’s literary magazine. Lucy had trouble trying to think up a story until she recalled the event from her childhood. She was sure that nothing she wrote would ever be chosen, which is why she finally decided to submit such a very personal and true story, pretending it was fiction.

   Lucy shut down her laptop and got ready for bed. She had an early class the next morning and a bit of a distance to drive to get to the school. That didn’t bother her much, however. It would have been nice to live on campus, but as a transfer student from a community college out of state, she had lower priority for the dorms than incoming first-year students. Instead, she had found a room to rent in a residence hotel far enough away that the cost was reasonable, even with eating out factored in. Lucy had dreamed of going to this school ever since she had lived here as a child.

   Transferring as a junior was the only way she could afford it. If only her grandmother was still alive, she could have lived with her! Lucy smiled at the thought. “Gramma…” she said with love. She still couldn’t drive past the place where her grandmother’s house had once stood before being torn down years ago. She wanted to think of the house as it used to be, to pretend it was still there somehow, still there for her... She had crystal clear memories of the rooms, the attic, the furnishings, her playtimes, everything--except that one incident. Why couldn't she remember what had happened that day? She went to bed still wondering about that.

******

   Lucy was glad to be home the next day after endless hours of classes and studying on campus. Dinner had been fast food again, but she planned to get deli sandwiches or a big salad tomorrow. Maybe if she found a part-time job, she could move to a studio apartment where she could prepare her own meals. She dropped her books and backpack on a chair, got out her laptop and set it up.

   She opened her email; near the top of her inbox she saw one from her writing class TA. It would be the location of her section meeting tomorrow, she figured. That had not been set at the time of the first session; the students were told that they’d be informed later. She opened the email and started to scan the contents.

   And stopped cold. He’d chosen her story as his pick to be printed in the campus literary magazine? Lucy went back to the beginning of the email and read slowly, trying to comprehend every word. Yes, it was true—and he’d already sent it to the professor, who was editor in chief of the magazine! Her TA told her where the professor’s office was located. She was supposed to skip her section meeting the next day and instead meet the professor in his office, to discuss her story and how to prepare it for publication and for presentation to the class.

   Lucy started to feel panic and her stomach began to knot up. She never dreamed that this would happen to her. Why had she sent in that particular story? What had she been thinking? Her writing wasn’t that good—that’s why she was taking this class, for heaven’s sake! She figured that only her TA, and maybe the professor, would read it, to grade her assignment. Why her story? And why on earth hadn’t she substituted a different name? Even though it was supposed to be fiction, sooner or later someone would guess that the story was really about her; then everyone would know something intimately embarrassing about her private life. Maybe she could change the character’s name—yes, that might work, it wasn’t in print yet! She could pick out some other name and hopefully no one would suspect that it was a true story. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. All she had to do was convince the professor to accept the name change and pray that he would never guess that the story was true, and not fiction. She could do that. She had to do that.

***************

   The next morning, after a restless night's sleep, she drove to the school and walked to the building where the English department was located. She found the professor’s office and knocked on the door nervously. It wasn’t completely shut, so it swung open part way. Lucy looked inside and said a tentative “hello?” but no one was there. She glanced at her watch—oh, she was five minutes early. Maybe the professor had just stepped out for something. There were a couple of chairs facing his desk, so Lucy went in and sat down on one of them. While she waited, she thought again of her story, and that it was really going to be printed in a magazine. That was beginning to exhilarate her. But she had to ask right away that the girl’s name be changed. She couldn’t imagine that that would be a problem, but she hadn’t chosen an alternative yet. Maybe the professor could help her with that.

   Before she could go much farther in her thinking she heard the soft sound of steps coming down the hall, and then a voice spoke: “Good morning. It's Miss Layton, isn't it?" Lucy turned and saw an older man standing in the doorway. His arms were placed on the door frame as he leaned forward into the room. He continued, "Good story! Using your own name helped your imagination, didn’t it? That made it sound real, as if it had actually happened. But it stops too abruptly, leaves the reader hanging; it needs a stronger ending. If you put your mind to it, I think you can come up with one."

   He came into the room, but instead of going to his desk, he took the chair next to her. "What happened when Lucy stepped out of the closet?" He didn’t say anything more, but just sat there, looking at her.

   For a long moment, Lucy felt that she couldn’t breathe. She looked quickly around the room, but the door was the only way out of the office and it was beyond his chair. She was trapped. And no one was there to save her. Her eyes lost focus and she started shaking all over.

   The professor was instantly concerned. “Miss Layton, are you okay? What’s the matter?” He reached out his hand to touch her.

   Lucy shrank back as far away as possible, covering herself with her arms. She stared toward him with a dazed and shocked expression on her face, not really seeing him. “My dress…” she said in a high, tearful voice. 

   “What happened to my sundress?”

Mary M. Isaacs, Copyright 2019

Hidden in Plain Sight

A short story by Mary M. Isaacs


There hadn’t been any public burnings for a while. The State had decided that “out of sight, out of mind” was the best policy for destruction, now that the people had been conditioned to know what was allowed and what wasn’t. Many things were regulated or banned outright—art and literature and religion especially—and sparks of intellectual creativity had been few and far between for a long time. Certain topics only were allowed for books, certain subjects only for artwork. Everything else had been forbidden or destroyed. The Guards had made sure of that.

John remembered witnessing frequent burnings many years ago, when he was a child. One had been for forbidden art. There had been a large pile of beautiful paintings, mostly portraits, and he had watched with unexpected pain and anger as the Guards threw the artwork into the fire. The colorful images darkened and then burst into hot flame until they were entirely consumed. Years later, he understood that pain, as he discovered a love for art within himself and eventually trained to be a landscape and florals painter, the only art subjects now allowed by the State. But in the back of his mind was always the memory of the fiery destruction of beauty; deep inside his soul he remained angry at the restrictions and waste.

The creators of forbidden art and the authors and publishers of forbidden books were never seen again. “Exile” was the whispered explanation, which spread throughout the population. Other kinds of contraband had been publicly destroyed, as ominous and pointed examples. People fell into line eventually and the burnings became rarer. But John never forgot.

He knew how to keep secrets. His parents and grandparents had been quiet but committed Christians and had carried their faith undetected to the grave. John had no family now, but he had the legacy of their faith in full measure. He did not know any other Christians personally, nor did he attend any of the underground, illegal house churches that existed in his city—tiny groups which operated semi-independently, for security’s sake—but he was in touch with them through a carefully constructed network. This network had been painstakingly set up in order that nothing could be traced from them back to him, because some of his artwork was destined for those house churches: John was the secret painter of the Holy Cross icons.

In certain of his paintings, John hid the shape of the Cross of Christ.

Christ Child’s Lullaby

Rose hurried, so she wouldn’t miss the beginning of the church service. It was already too late for her to take her place in the choir—she couldn’t have, anyway, because of the cold and laryngitis that had crept up on her the past several days. She knew it was coming and it made her heart sink. There was nothing Rose loved more than singing, and she especially looked forward to Christmas time when she could sing the beautiful music she had adored and sung since childhood. She knew she had a good voice—her friends told her that, choir directors told her that, even strangers in church said so. That didn’t matter, one way or another. She just loved to sing; she would sing even if her voice had been plain and ordinary.


She buttoned up her overcoat and put on a woolen cap, gloves, and snow boots. It was bitterly cold outside, and the forecast had called for more snow sometime before morning. Even though it was too late to protect her voice from the cold, Rose still needed to keep warm. The church was very large; good for singing but bad for warmth. As she was not going to be in the relatively sheltered group of singers standing shoulder-to-shoulder, but instead sitting in a cold wooden pew by herself, she needed the heavy outer clothing.

She remembered to turn the heat down in her small apartment. She also left a few lights on, as her parents had advised when she moved to the city. After locking the door, she hastened down the stairs and out through the glass doors of the lobby. No one was around—too cold, too late at night. Everyone was either snug at home, or already where they were going for the evening. She turned at the corner and made her way down several blocks, avoiding icy patches and leftover drifts of snow. It had been a rough week for weather, so she was careful how and where she stepped.

The bulk of the old church soon loomed on her left. She saw a few people climbing the stairs and pulling open the heavy wooden doors. She followed them, entering the quiet darkness of the narthex; there were candles burning there and also inside the sanctuary. An older man greeted her and handed her a bulletin. She looked at it as she made her way to a side aisle and seated herself at the end of a pew. The church was partly full. The service began almost as soon as she sat down…

Rose loved every moment—even the times when the choir sang alone, when she should have been singing with them. The words of their special music echoed in her heart and she imagined herself singing along. It was almost enough, but still she felt a little sad. When the congregation stood for the Christmas carols, she stood, too. After the first words of the first carol, when her voice came out as a broken whisper, she didn’t try to sing any more, but let the words and music flow around and through her. She thought the words, remembering all the years before of singing these beloved songs. Next year, next year; it will be better next year, she promised herself–next year I will sing and sing, every song! But she had a few tears. Her throat hurt and she controlled her coughing as much as possible.

In between songs and Scripture readings she looked around. The familiar church looked especially lovely in candlelight. It was so large that the ceiling was shrouded in darkness. The wood of the old, worn pews glowed in the dim light. There was a large painting on a side wall close to the front, of Mary holding the child Jesus on her lap. The light from so many candles made the image flicker a little, giving the impression of faint movement, as of breath. Mary’s eyes seemed to look right at her, sending comfort and strength, as though she knew all about Rose’s impaired voice. A wave of love came to her as she looked at the painting.

Many people sat around her. Some looked familiar, from Sunday services (although she only knew the choir members, somewhat). However, as it was the last Sunday before Christmas Eve, there were people she had never seen before—some shabby, some looking troubled or sad, others looking serene and happy. Each face held different emotions. Young and old, rich and poor, all were represented in the gathering. All had come, like Rose, to experience the hushed time of waiting and expectation.

The service came to an end and most of the people began to depart. The lights remained off as the celebrants and congregation left in candlelight. Rose noticed a few people remaining seated, in prayer or quietly waiting in the shadows.

Preparing to leave, her eyes were caught again by the painting of Mary and her son. Deep within her, she heard a silent request, a request for her to stay. Although unspoken, it was strong and compelling; Rose remained standing, facing forward, as she listened to the sweet voice inside her. After a few moments, something moved her to leave the pew and walk up the aisle toward the front of the church. Towards the painting. As she came closer, the image grew clearer and richer.

She glanced at the pews around her as she walked past. By this time they were empty, except for a few people scattered here and there. They all seemed absorbed in thought or prayer. She knew most of them slightly—there was the young woman who had shared, over coffee hour, that her husband had left her. She sat hunched over, holding her face in her hands. Farther away was the man who had been giving out the bulletins. Rose remembered that he had been laid off from his job only a week or two ago. What an awful time of year to be unemployed, she thought. She walked past an older woman who was crying silently, tears spilling down her face. Her hands were grasped together tightly. Across the aisle was an elderly couple, sitting close to each other. Rose knew they were in fragile health and were very worried about that. How did they manage to get here safely, through the icy streets? she asked herself. A young man sat quietly, with his eyes closed. Rose recognized him from past Sundays, but she was always too shy to speak to someone she didn’t know, even though he looked nice.

She finally reached the front of the church. She stopped a few feet from the painting and waited quietly, looking straight into Mary’s eyes. The voice came again…

“Sing to my Son for me.”
“But my voice is gone,” Rose whispered sadly.
“Sing to my Son for me.”
“My lady, I can’t!” tears gathered in Rose’s eyes and began to fall.
“Yes, you can. Please sing to Him.”

Rose looked down and was silent for a moment; she then raised her head, took a deep breath, and began to sing. Her heart soared, higher and higher, as she sang. It was like being lifted to the stars.

“My son, my treasured one are you,
My sweet and loving son are you,
You are my love, my darling, new–
Unworthy, I, of you.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

While Rose sang the old Scottish lullaby, a small part of her wondered at how she no longer had laryngitis, at how strong and clear her voice was. But mostly she was focused entirely on the song, the words, the emotions. Her grandmother had sung this lullaby to her countless times when Rose was a little girl. While she sang it, she remembered being held close in her grandmother’s arms as she slowly drifted off to sleep. It was the right song, the perfect song to sing to baby Jesus, the Christ child.

Mary’s eyes in the painting shone in the candlelight as the song words floated, high and clear, throughout the church. A sense of peace blanketed everyone there. The elderly couple looked at each other lovingly and moved closer together, clasping each other’s hands. Their worries and fears subsided as they rested in the beautiful music. The young woman whose husband had left her raised her head in surprise; a look of hope and strength slowly grew on her face.

“Your mild and gentle eyes proclaim
The loving heart with which you came–
A tender, helpless, tiny babe
With boundless gifts of grace.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

While the song continued, the older woman sitting alone felt a strong impulse to look at her phone. She pulled it out and then stared in near-disbelief at the number on the display. With tears blurring her vision, she quickly put on her coat and hurried toward the main door of the church. As she left, her face shone with a look of love almost matching the one on Mary’s face. The man who had passed out the bulletins stopped gathering them up, closed his eyes, and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. He knew, deep in his heart, that God was watching over him and would provide him with all he needed, every day.

“King of kings, most Holy one,
God the Son, eternal one,
You are my God—and helpless son–
High Ruler of mankind.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

The young man leaned over his folded hands, with a joyful smile on his face. He recognized that voice—he had heard it every Sunday, part of the choir but still distinct and set apart. That voice had touched his heart, but he couldn’t tell who the singer was. Now he knew. It was the young woman he had noticed at coffee hour. He had wanted to introduce himself to her but hadn’t quite found the right time or way. Now he looked up at the figure of the girl standing in front of the portrait of Mary and Jesus. It was like finding a long-lost friend. It had been difficult and discouraging for him, moving to an unfamiliar city without friends or family. He now felt very glad to be living here.

The lullaby ended. The last note shimmered in the air, and Rose looked into Mary’s eyes. It seemed to her that the painted smile deepened for an instant—and then the feeling of being uplifted slowly faded away and departed. Rose turned and started walking back to the pew where her coat was.

As she walked, she saw the remaining people quietly preparing to leave the church. After putting on her coat, she went to help the elderly man, who was having a little trouble bundling his wife up in her overcoat. They thanked her for her help and then all three walked to the door, Rose matching her pace to their slower steps. By the time they reached there, the church was empty. In the narthex, however, she saw the young man, who was obviously waiting for them.

“Do you have a car? It’s snowing outside,” he said to the older couple. When they answered in the negative, he asked, “May I call a taxi for you?” The couple thanked him, and the young man made the call. They waited inside until the taxi arrived, and then he and Rose helped the older couple down the church steps, which were now covered with snow. They assisted the man and his wife into the taxi, closed the door, and watched while the car pulled away from the curb and drove off.

The young man looked at Rose. “How are you getting home? Do you need a taxi, too?”

She answered, “Oh, no, I live only a couple of blocks from here. It’s just a short walk.”

“But it’s a cold and slippery walk,” he responded. “May I see you home? I wouldn’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.”

Rose looked at him for a moment, and then smiled. He was a stranger—but also not a stranger. She had seen him in church, often, and he had helped the old couple. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she trusted him. “Thank you. I live down that way,” she said, pointing. “Oh–my name is Rose.”

“I’m Joe,” the young man said, and he held out his elbow for her. She put her arm through it and they walked off together, slowly and carefully, avoiding icy patches and the fresh drifts of snow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: “The Christ Child’s Lullaby” is an English translation of a much longer traditional Gaelic Christmas song, “Taladh Chriosda,” from the Outer Hebrides of Scotland.

(copyright 2018, Mary M. Isaacs)

The Cell Phone (a short story)

…..It was early in the afternoon. He had taken a break from walking and was sitting on an old bench in the park of the little town. It seemed like a nice place to live; he was glad that he’d had a chance to see it before leaving the state. While he rested his feet, he took a water bottle from his backpack and had a drink before putting it away. He would look for a cafe or a grocery store deli while heading to the bus station. There was a long road ahead of him, and he would need food and more water for the journey.

The phone in his jacket pocket rang. He took it out, looked at the display for a moment, and then decided it was okay to answer right now. He held the phone up to his ear as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Hello.”

Her voice sounded like it always did now: controlled, tentative, intentionally neutral. “Hi, Jack. How are you?”

“I’m all right.”

A pause. Then, “Where are you these days?” The question was said in a light tone, but that didn’t fool him.

“I’m on the move. Passing through Colorado right now.”

“Where are you heading?” The end of the question was bitten off, as if she had realized she was going too far and would like to unsay it. Too late.

“Not sure right now. Somewhere.” It was the usual answer. And a truthful one.

There was more silence. “Do you need anything? I could send something General Delivery if you told me what town you were heading towards. Or where you’ll be sometime soon.” She qualified the explanation, to give him space.

He thought about it, and then replied in the negative. “But thank you.” He knew she was just trying to be helpful. Like when she gave him this phone, which she was paying for. He seldom used it, except for answering her calls. Sometimes. And he had disabled the GPS tracking as soon as he received it. He didn’t want to be dependent on anyone or anything; he didn’t want to be found, especially by her. But he kept the phone just to give her some peace of mind. He figured he owed it to her, after what had happened.

“Jack…” her voice trailed off uncertainly. He knew what that meant.

“I know.” He passed his hand over his eyes and considered whether he should say anything else, and then decided it was the least he could do for her. “I love you, too.”

There was another long silence. He could feel the intensity in it, and he waited, knowing she had something to say. But when she finally did speak, her abrupt abandonment of generalities caught him off guard.

“I’m not angry with you any more, Jack—don’t you know that? It wasn’t all your fault, your decision. I agreed, remember? I know it was wrong, but we did what we thought was best at the time. I forgive you. I’ve forgiven myself.”

He jerked upright. “But I can’t,” he responded harshly. “And I can’t forget what I did. Not ever.” He stopped speaking as suddenly as she had, earlier. “I have to go now.”

There was no response from the other end, but he knew it wasn’t silent where she was. He knew she was trying to keep her crying as quiet as possible. Their calls always ended like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He waited for her to speak again, trying to keep his own pain under control.

“Please take care, Jack. Be careful wherever you go. I’ll call again.”

“You do that.” He heard hesitancy, as if she was going to say something else, and then she hung up.

He turned off the phone and pocketed it. Then he leaned back on the park bench and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. Her calls always had that effect, scrambling his thinking; this one would haunt him for quite a while. What would everything be like if it hadn’t happened? Was he going to be on the road like this forever? Would he ever be able to see her again? At that, he opened his eyes and sat forward, dragging his thoughts away from a past that could not be changed.

He took a deep breath, picked up his backpack, and got to his feet. He thought he’d seen a cafe sign down the road a bit. It was time to go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

copyright 2019, by Mary M. Isaacs


(included in the collection, Holy Innocence available on Amazon here)

Hidden in Plain Sight

A short story by Mary M. Isaacs


There hadn’t been any public burnings for a while. The State had decided that “out of sight, out of mind” was the best policy for destruction, now that the people had been conditioned to know what was allowed and what wasn’t. Many things were regulated or banned outright—art and literature and religion especially—and sparks of intellectual creativity had been few and far between for a long time. Certain topics only were allowed for books, certain subjects only for artwork. Everything else had been forbidden or destroyed. The Guards had made sure of that.

John remembered witnessing frequent burnings many years ago, when he was a child. One had been for forbidden art. There had been a large pile of beautiful paintings, mostly portraits, and he had watched with unexpected pain and anger as the Guards threw the artwork into the fire. The colorful images darkened and then burst into hot flame until they were entirely consumed. Years later, he understood that pain, as he discovered a love for art within himself and eventually trained to be a landscape and florals painter, the only art subjects now allowed by the State. But in the back of his mind was always the memory of the fiery destruction of beauty; deep inside his soul he remained angry at the restrictions and waste.

The creators of forbidden art and the authors and publishers of forbidden books were never seen again. “Exile” was the whispered explanation, which spread throughout the population. Other kinds of contraband had been publicly destroyed, as ominous and pointed examples. People fell into line eventually and the burnings became rarer. But John never forgot.

He knew how to keep secrets. His parents and grandparents had been quiet but committed Christians and had carried their faith undetected to the grave. John had no family now, but he had the legacy of their faith in full measure. He did not know any other Christians personally, nor did he attend any of the underground, illegal house churches that existed in his city—tiny groups which operated semi-independently, for security’s sake—but he was in touch with them through a carefully constructed network. This network had been painstakingly set up in order that nothing could be traced from them back to him, because some of his artwork was destined for those house churches: John was the secret painter of the Holy Cross icons.

In certain of his paintings, John hid the shape of the Cross of Christ.

My Chicago 2 AM Adventure

I just got back from a business trip to Chicago...
(Business trip? I thought you were retired?)
(Shut up!)
I was sitting in a bar, telling the bartender that Barbra Streisand was the most overrated singer of the 20th century. At closing time, I got up and grabbed a handful of peanuts for the walk back to the hotel.

When I stepped outside, I was accosted by two figures, wearing "pussy hats", singing "People who need people". I dropped the peanuts to the sidewalk. (Note to Jussie Smollett: it's the small details that sell the story!)

Like with Jussie, the whole encounter was less than sixty seconds. It wasn't a fair fight. At two to one, they should have known better!

I told the Chicago Police they could identify the scene by the scattered peanuts and the blood stained pink yarn left behind.