The+Emerald+Offering

The Emerald Offering (in progress)

I guess that’s what happens when guilt eats you. …when it grabs your neck, its rope twists, bites into your neck…finally chokes you. You can’t breathe. I know //she// couldn’t breathe. Her body bent over as if she would heave right there in church, yet she gasped for air. Air that would remind her she’s living. And living a lie. A large lie. //I know how she felt.//

Two weeks I’d been working next to Carmen at the Howard Johnson Hotel. I was part-time and she was working in catering, booking weddings, banquets, conventions. I was there to make copies, to follow-up phone calls, to make coffee and simply to water egos. My college degree was paying off. Five long years, three different colleges and what to show? Two tattoos and many months that I can’t remember. I guess being sober for two months is something to celebrate, but I can’t //celebrate// anymore. What’s the point without vodka? I didn’t join stupid AA, though. Again what’s the point? If I can’t smoke a joint, what good would nicotine do? If I can’t drink a 12-pack, why bother with a pack of Slims? And to sit around with losers like me. No thanks. Been there and done that. I didn’t like my “friends” high let alone a bunch like them, but sober.

So, I called my sister in Po-dunk, USA after my latest binge and told her about my life. …my choices, my lack of will power, and sadly my lack of me. //Who was I anyway?// She urged me to come home, so I did. Sitting in my Nissan hatchback in front of her farm-style house, I cried. Right there slumped over the steering wheel. This was the end; I had screwed up so much that here I was...somewhere unknown on a dead-end street, living with my younger sister that's always good. I felt my life was over. I sobbed without sound as if Sorrow sucked sound from my vocal chords. I remembered his rough hands groping me. I remembered my voice that wanted to say no, but didn't. I remembered the night that enveloped my life. //Would I greet the sun again?// I didn't even hear my sister open the door and get in.

"Ally, I'm so glad you're home," she whispered. "I know this isn't ideal, but we'll have fun. Just like old times?" She clicked the rosary that hung from my rearview mirror and the green plastic beads swung back and forth. She smiled and and reached over for a hug. I don't know how long we hugged as I sobbed, but when we got out the rosary had stopped swinging. //Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Is He with me?//

A week of lying on Jamie's couch went by. I skipped family meals and saying grace; I was too depressed. Plus, I didn't believe in all that mumbo jumbo anymore. Jamie would take Benjamin to swim practice and I'd take to the backporch. Benjamin would be panting from crawl strokes; I was panting from my stokes. In and out, in and out. I'd feel better but not good enough to get dressed. Back to the couch and //Jerry Spriner//. A few episodes and I felt like my life was normal--at least my mom didn't sleep with my brother! A few times I'd rummage through Jamie's cupboards hoping to find Vodka, but all I found was powdered lemonade. I did find some of Kurt's beer in the fridge. I drank three, one right after another craving more. In the garage I searched the shelves and found a dusty bottle of whiskey. I polished it off right from the bottle. The haze came and so did my sadness. Sick to my stomach, the whiskey churned and I remembered my shame. //How did I get here? Why didn't I value who I was?// I hugged the toilet sick with grief. //I used to run track...just fly around the corners. Now I'm just running.// I returned to the navy plaid couch and wrapped Grandma's quilt around me. I passed out and again skipped family dinner and saying grace. Hopefully grace would arive while I slept.

But Jamie kept pressing me to get up and get going. "You'll feel better with a shower. We could take the kids down to the park. Some sunshine would do you good, Al. Come on. Plus, you're going to have to start job hunting at some point. I'll give Kathy a call about a hair appointment. She'll have to figure something out with that hair." Dreads dirty flop down 10 inches from my head; their cool factor was non-existent here in Jamie's world. I suppose she was right that no one here would hire a hippy. But cut my dreads? It took six years to get them this long and thick. She could wash them and tie them in a bundle in back, but I wasn't going to cut them. //Why do I care? What makes me want to keep them?// I remembered mom's voice, "Ally, straighten your skirt. You KNOW better. I've taught you how to walk the walk and talk the talk. For Pete's sake, don't embarrass me." I knew my dreads would have sent mom into a tailspin. //Maybe that's why they weren't getting cut.//

"Jamie, I'm not cutting the dreads."

Silence. The blinker clicked again and again and again. Then, "Mom always said that a light pink headband will go a long way with a hounds tooth skirt and pearls. But dreads and holey jeans...I don't think so," my sister Jamie said. But she never said a harsh word without a compliment: "Come on, Ally," she said after she saw me biting my lower lip. "You'll do just fine. You've got a college degree for Pete's sake! I don't have mine and I'm still a Supervisor at KMart. If //I// can do that, so can you. You have a gorgeous face, Al. You'll notice your blue eyes and button nose."

"God, button nose?" I smiled. "Honestly Jamie. I haven't heard that since before dad" Silence. I sat sinking my lower back against fabric seats. I wanted to cry but couldn't. //Why was I so stupid?//

More silence. Gravel crumbled under her wheels as we turned into the Little House of Hairs. //Great, I'm in a terrible B movie.//

"Al, It'll be a cute Meg Ryan hairdo!"

I turned away staring at the poorly painted pink one-room building. Did she realize young 20's hardly even knew who Meg Ryan was? I guess I am almost 28. I remembered Dad saying, "Al's my smart girl. By the time she's 30, she'll own this town. I know it. She's strong-willed enough to take on the good ol' boys. Right, Ally Al? You'll take over this town." He'd tussle my hair and I'd smile from my inside out. Nobody made me feel as good as my dad. //Father, forgive me for I have sinned.// A tear rolled down my face. I grabbed a dreadlock and decided I'd cut them.

Jamie grabbed my left hand and held it. "I know you've made choices you wished you hadn't. Here's your chance to start over." The dreads came off and I cried at the grandma curls perched on my head. If this was starting over, I wanted a do-over.

I walked into the interview at the Howard Johnson Hotel looking like Sister Martha’s niece: proper, kind, and eager to work. I knew how to play this game of stand-up-and-sit-down, shake hands firmly, and nod slowly to acknowledge good listening; it had just been awhile. Kneeling on pews my whole childhood prepared me for this. I remembered how to look like I was in motion, doing the //right// motions, while faking my //e//motions. Church on Sunday’s, Saturday nights, and even Wednesday’s during Lent, I could fool my mom most days, the one who trained me for my deceptive self. My brother and sister could sit in church, hands folded saying the “Our Father” and I could still gossip with my eyebrows; we all could. Well, except Jamie. She was //always// good.

//Look who’s here.// I’d raise my eyebrows with a slight arch, a little higher on the left. Tiny scowl noticed on the lips.

//No way,// my brother would reply with a head shake, slow and judgmental. Then a nod towards a classmate. Head comes back with a look like he’d just smelled last week’s garbage. //And what is she wearing?//

My sister’s shoulders shrug and she smiles, a little embarrassed. She always was the better one of the 3 of us, not succumbing to gossip. Yet, mom would eye her and scold her; Tommy would give Jamie a look of disapproval and again the slow, judgmental head shake. Mom would whisper in a staccato.

“JAmie. You will NOT be GOing to SaMANtha’s if you KEEP that UP. I MEAN it. No TALKING or LAUGHING in CHURCH. HONestly!” Mom couldn’t just say //be quiet//; oh no, she had to ridicule you and make certain everyone around heard you. I don’t know if I’ve ever gotten over her harsh tone. But I’d still choose wrong over right, knowing full well there’d be consequences.

Yet, start to say the “Hail Mary” and I am immediately reverent. I sit taller and pull my knees together; I wish I would have heard the Mother Mary speak to me years sooner. Many ‘a early morning hangovers could have been avoided wondering if Dan was really his name.

Sleeping on the couch continued and yet I finally joined family dinners. I didn't say grace, but respectfully bowed my head until one day, little Benjamin asked, "Anty Al, why you not say prayer?"

I didn't have an answer for him. I just moved my peas around on my plate. "Benjamin Thomas. Mind your own business," Kurt said saving me. Strangely, the next dinner, the words rolled out my mouth and the mumbo jumbo felt nice.

Weeks went by and my hair slowly grew, slowly, but it did grow. Carmen and I would eat lunch together sometimes sharing a salad, sometimes ordering the day's soup. Talk came easy and we soon were taking walks together on evenings; the pink skyline contrasted the dark, evergreen rolling hills. County roads winded around creeks and right into me. I never knew rural life could bring such peace. //He walketh beside still waters. He restorth my soul.//

"So why'd you come here, Ally?"

"I don't know, to be honest. I loathe everything about small towns, but at my lowest point, I called Jamie. I don't why, but I did."

"Can I ask," she preceded with a softer voice. "what happened, Ally?"

"In the end...right before I left, I slept with my boss from the coffee shop, several times. He's such a creep. At first I denied that it was a big deal until that first day we worked together. He kept pinching my butt and whispering disgusting things in my ear. I haven't had a coffee since I got here." We kept walking; wheat grass swayed with our steps, huddled close like a parishners.

"Did he..do...anything else?"

"You'd think he was forcing me, but he wasn't...not physically anyway. He'd just whisper, 'back room or no job AP'. I hated him calling me that and wished I could disappear. I needed the job because I stopped going to school, so no school loans. How would I pay rent? We go to the back and right there on the cold, lifeless floor, we'd get together. I started coming to work drunk and stoned. I needed a blanket between his hands and my skin; the alcohol provided at least a little cloud between us. What's worse, Carmen, I mean it's not enough to have memories of sleeping with a disgusting old man, but he was married with kids....I can't get his face out of my head....I just don't know how I got here." Crying, we stopped and an old oak tree stood fatherly. I reached down grabbing one of its fallen leaves. //Father, forgive me for I have sinned. Will someone pick me up or will I wither away in autumn?

"//I don't want to force anything Ally, but when I'd love for you to come to church with me. I'd pick you uh--"

"NO....thanks," I jumped on her words. I was hurting and my religious roots tugged, but I wasn't ready. I got home that night and I swear I smoked a whole pack. I just couldn't inhale away the guilt of saying no to church and not saying no to my boss. Tears wouldn't fall as my sadness seemed as dry as paper around the tobacco...burning and falling away as the ashes into the geraniums.

So that particular Sunday, I felt a pull and a need to go; the rosary swinging back and forth that first day in town kept a persistent pace, marching back to belief.

That Sunday, I pulled up to the red brick church with its stairs as wide as its side walls, just asking for every passerby to walk right up; a salesman it was with a seemingly wide grin and a promise of something more. Sitting in my hatchback Nissan, black with tinted windows, I felt disguised. My life was a mask that I’d join in revelry without cause for celebration. And this party I was about to enter did have cause; I wasn't sure I could buy into it again. My stomach ached and I wished I’d never taken that stupid Howard Johnson job. Carmen wouldn’t have dangled church in front of me, guilt-tripping me into coming. Why are Catholics so good at feeling guilt? //Lord I have sinned, but only say the Word and I shall be healed. Can I? Can I be healed?//

I watched families holding little ones who walked slowly with one foot dangling mid air every so often; little arms lifted so toes barely touched. To be back at that age, I can remember holding my dad’s strong hands. …when he was around. I’d wrap my hand around his pointy finger and I’d follow him anywhere. Even up the church steps where I knew I’d have to be quiet. I watched young couples with his arm draped heavily over her shoulders. //Run!// I wanted to scream. //He’s a creep!// But why? What had he done? He wasn’t one of the ones I caroused with between pool tables and whiskey sours. He was volunteering at the AARP’s bingo night, I’m sure. My chest tightened and I slumped toward the steering wheel. The keys still in the ignition; I could have just turned it on and left. But I didn’t. I listened to my deep breathing, the struggle to get air and I opened the door. I walked up the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 stairs and I stopped.

“Hi! Are you new?”

//Jesus! Where did she come from?// Pink suit and pearls, a black headband to match the black pumps, she smiled and wrapped both her hands around my right’s. “Come in, dear. We’re so glad to have you. I’m Marcy and I sit right here if you need anything.”

//What the hell would I need? I’m at church, right? Up and down? Rote memory prayers?// I froze and stared into the modern church. Folding chairs on corporate carpet? A drum set in the right corner of the alter with 8 microphones? More like a stage, apparently.

“Ally! So great you’re here!” Carmen, the gorgeous blonde, 5’10, thin yet curvy, my co-worker with blue eyes, grabbed me around the waist and walked me to where she was sitting with her husband and two boys. I told her I’d sit behind and clasped my hands in prayer. The game had begun and already she left me alone. //Dear God, why am I here? I feel as if my life is a joke. A lie. A very large lie. So what do you want?// I inhaled until my lungs couldn’t hold anymore and held my breath while I very slowly exhaled. I felt that someone might hear me breathing and I’d be noticed. It was enough that Carmen and Marcy knew my name. A loud greeting and cheers, then we stood. Some danced in the aisles, others pounded tambourines, others sat still in solumn prayer. I stood, smiling. Music could always make me smile. I sang my heart out that Sunday…two hours straight. My breathing became easy and I knew why I was there. I was finding my voice. I was finding my way.

After the sermon and another 45 minute song, the pastor took an offering, but it wasn’t simple like St. Anthony’s. This offering was thoughtful and meditative. We had to pray while Enya-like music haunted the stage: violins sang ancient melodies and the piano lulled a star-twinkling sound: far away, yet memorable.

“An offering is a conscious act, one that isn’t formulaic. One that is a conversation between you and God. What should you give? What can you give? What are you called to give? Is it your time at a food shelter this week? Is it a $20 check, $100, or $2000? Is it an hour a prayer each day? What will your commitment be towards God and towards your spiritual life? Say this prayer as we contemplate: //Lord, I come to you today with my sins revealed. My soul unbarred and I am here, Lord. I am Your servant. I pray that my offering will be revealed.”// I prayed and whispered. Some quietly sang, others got on their knees. No pews required here, only voluntary sacrifices.

That’s when I heard Carmen’s burden. The pastor came directly over to Carmen and whispered in her left ear leaning from the aisle into her space. “Carmen, the Lord has called me to you. I don’t know what for, but I know your heart is heavy. So heavy you cannot give yourself to the Lord. Carmen, I ask you to reveal your sin, reveal your burden and be freed. God wants you to be free.” She broke, bended in half and gasped for air. She turned towards the pastor, knees turned in the aisle. Carmen’s husband put his hand on her back, but kept singing as if he didn’t want to hear.

Carmen looked up at the pastor, “I have another child. My children have a brother they’ve never met.” Broken. Truly broken, she bent over and sobbed. Her husband got up and walked to the back.

//Had he heard? Did he not know? Lord, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.//

“God knows my child. God knows and loves you anyways.” Now he touched her back and let her grief and moment of forgiveness sink in. The pastor looked at me and said, “He knows of your sorrows too. He loves You and wants you to come home.”

//Jesus! What was this place?// At St. Anthony’s, we could sneak in and out without anyone saying a personal word; you only uttered //Peace be with you// at a point in the service, but I don’t think anyone really meant it. These people seemed to see right into your dimly lit room of a soul…and strangely they didn’t care what they saw.

The pastor walked by to the alter and I replaced his hand on Carmen’s back with mine. I don't know why, but I did. I knew she needed support and somehow I could give her a little strength of mine. I knelt next to her and prayed: // Hail Mary,Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. // Her back straightened and I realized I was crying, but she had stopped. Her knees pulled together and she gathered strength to stand. She smiled over her heartache and twisted her emerald ring around and around. I moved back to my seat and joined the singing, wiping away my tears.

Carmen kept fiddling with her ring; I thought it was her guilt and the turmoil about her husband leaving in the middle of church, the sadness of her lie. But maybe it was relief, relief that the truth had fallen. She turned around and whispered //thanks// grabbing my hand. Her emerald ring was gone. She turned and she walked with purpose to the offering basket. She walked down the aisle again crying but now her face seemed healed. She may be cracked, but this green sickness she had inside was visually gone. It laid in weaved wicker amongst dollars and promises.

I stormed, almost marched to my car. Urgency wasn't the feeling; it was commitment. I wasn’t offering what she gave, but it began to unravel my lies and to undo my masked self. //Lord, I am not worthy to receive You, but only say the word and I am healed.// I grabbed the green beads, cross at the center of my palm, and up the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 stairs. I inhaled at the church doorrs and wondered: //would this offering be enough? Enough for what?// I turned the green cross around and around as I stood and watched the ushers carry the offering baskets placing them on the back table. Carmen's husband was watching too from the bench in the back. He waited until the men went back into the church, looked side to side, reached into the wicker, grabbing something and walked right out the door. I stepped back as he brushed passed me. Carmen's offering may have been enough for her to feel better but for her husband? Did he give her the ring? Would he sell it? Would set it out on the bathroom counter as a sick reminder that he knows?

I couldn't do it, not this way. Not rushed and not simply because Carmen carried a burden as deep as mine. Getting back in my Nissan, I hung my green rosary back on the mirror tilting it my way and I saw myself differently that day. I looked hollow but I could see a hint of me.