Godsent Read online

  “But you always told me you were eighteen . . .”

  Glory raised her eyes to meet Kate’s gaze and gave her a weary smile. “No, I was still in high school. Your father was in college, away in Columbia on a football scholarship. I was afraid I was going to lose him. So I didn’t take all the precautions I should have taken, and, well, I got pregnant.”

  Kate listened to this confession wide-eyed.

  “As soon as Papa Jim found out, he went out there and gave your father a good talking-to. I got a marriage proposal the next day.”

  “Papa Jim forced Daddy to ask you to marry him?”

  “Let’s just say that your grandfather can be very persuasive. But I don’t regret anything—not the marriage, and certainly not you, honey. Your father and I love each other, and we love you. I wouldn’t change anything. But it’s killing me to see you go down that same path.” Glory sighed then continued, “I’m not going to ask you again who the father is. Not now. But please tell me one thing. Do you love Brady? Because as soon as Papa Jim learns that you’re pregnant, he’s going to pay that boy a visit. And you’ll be receiving a proposal of your own in short order.”

  Kate felt a growing sense of horror. She hadn’t considered any of this. But her mother was right. Papa Jim would take matters into his own hands. She knew from personal experience how persuasive he could be. Brady would propose. And Papa Jim would see to it that she accepted the proposal. “I don’t want to marry Brady,” she said. “I don’t want to marry anyone!”

  Glory nodded as if she’d expected no other reply. “Your father is away, and Papa Jim is busy with that new prison down in Florida. There’s another week before you have to go back to school. Nobody will think it’s strange if the two of us take a little shopping trip up to New York City. We’ll take care of this problem there, and no one will ever need to know.”

  Kate looked at her mother as if she were a stranger. “You mean get an abortion?”

  Glory nodded again.

  “But you told Dr. Sibley it was a sin.”

  “I know, honey,” said Glory. “But I asked God to put the sin on me, not you.”

  “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way, Mom,” she said.

  “This is for the best, Kate, you’ll see,” Glory went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I prayed hard about this, as hard as I’ve ever prayed in my life, and this was the answer that came to me. I think it’s what God wants.”

  At this, Kate gave a start. She had been praying too. And she’d asked God to find someone else. Is this the answer to my prayer? she wondered. God, are you telling me that you’ve granted what I asked? Chosen someone else to bear your child, someone better? Please, I don’t know what to do . . . I need some kind of sign . . .

  “We leave tomorrow,” Glory said. “I’ve already made the reservations.”

  Kate nodded mutely. This was the sign. It had to be.

  God had made His decision.

  He had rejected her. Found someone else for this task.

  She was free. The burden was lifted.

  Why, then, did she feel like weeping?

  CHAPTER 3

  New York City in January was very different from the city as she’d last seen it. Then it had been November, with a late surge of Indian summer making it feel like fall was weeks away. Now, with an icy wind whipping along streets lined with piles of snow so filthy they resembled ash heaps, the city seemed ugly, bleak, and inhospitable despite the festive Christmas decorations still hanging over Fifth Avenue. Or perhaps it was all in her mind, in her reasons for being here.

  Kate shivered in a blast of frigid wind that seemed to have blown down the avenue all the way from Canada without stopping. She pulled her cashmere scarf more closely about her neck and hurried toward St. Patrick’s Cathedral three blocks ahead, weaving her way through the tourists and shoppers who, ignoring the wind, had paused in front of the shop windows. Once Kate would have joined them; admiring the extravagant window displays along Fifth Avenue was one of her favorite New York pastimes. But not now. Not today.

  They’d arrived in New York just after noon and checked into the Plaza, where Glory always stayed when she visited the city, which she liked to do at least four times a year, once in each season, so that she could stock up on the latest fashions. The clinic appointment wasn’t until tomorrow. Glory had wanted to give them an afternoon of shopping, since that was, after all, the ostensible purpose of their trip, and it didn’t seem too likely that Kate would be interested in, much less capable of, shopping after the procedure.

  That was what Glory called it. The procedure. As if it were something simple and mechanical, something that didn’t involve the invasion of her daughter’s body and the termination of a human life. But Kate didn’t really blame her mother for resorting to a euphemism. She couldn’t say the word out loud herself. Could barely even think it silently in the privacy of her own mind.

  Abortion.

  All her life she’d believed it was wrong, a terrible sin. Her parents had taught her as much, and so had her religion, her faith.

  Now, though, it was her mother who had suggested the procedure, and she had agreed to it without hesitation, believing that it was what God wanted her to do. Kate hadn’t said anything to Glory about that, of course. Hadn’t mentioned that she was convinced she was carrying God’s child. She knew that any such statement would earn her a trip to a very different sort of doctor than the one she was scheduled to visit tomorrow. No, she couldn’t confide in Glory. Couldn’t confide in anyone, except God.

  Kate thought that she had probably said more prayers in the last two days than she had in her whole previous life put together. But despite all those prayers, she didn’t feel that she’d made a connection. Hello, this is God. I’m not here right now, but if you leave your message at the tone . . . That’s what it felt like. He was listening, but not answering. And why should He? He’d granted her prayer already, hadn’t He? Lifted the burden from her shoulders, provided the means by which she could refuse what He had offered, the chance to be the mother to His child.

  She couldn’t imagine why she had been singled out in the first place. She was just an ordinary girl, and the thought of what had been asked of her was overwhelming. It wasn’t just the shock of discovering that she was pregnant without having ever done more than kiss a boy, although that was pretty frightening. And the way that everyone, even Glory, assumed she was lying to protect Brady or some other boy didn’t help matters very much either. But what really made her want to curl up into a shivering ball was the idea of what would come after. Not just the way people would judge her for being a single mother at seventeen. The frankly curious or nasty or pitying looks, all equally unwelcome, and the gossip that would go on behind her back. The righteous comments that would be made to her face. All of that would be bad enough. But there would be still worse to come.

  Kate didn’t think she could bear to see a child of hers suffer as Jesus had suffered. She didn’t understand how Mary had been able to go on after all that had happened to her son. How she had been able to watch as he was tortured and put to death. How strong her faith must have been! But Kate didn’t have that kind of faith.

  She knew her Bible. She knew what tended to happen to those who were touched by God. She didn’t want that for her child. Or for herself. Maybe it was selfish, but she couldn’t help it. She was afraid. There was too much evil in the world. So she had prayed for God to choose another vessel. Told Him that she was too weak. Unworthy. And lo and behold, her mother had come to her bedroom with the plan that had brought them to New York, a little miracle in itself, really, because Glory had always been unwavering in her opposition to abortion; for her to suggest it now was proof to Kate of God’s invisible hand at work. That was when she had understood that He had granted her prayer and was offering her a way out.

  But despite all that, since arriving in the city, Kate had been wracked by doubts. Was she really doing the right thing? Was this what God wanted . . .
the termination of a human—or more than human—life? Or was she just fooling herself, trying to ease her conscience?

  Over lunch at Lespinasse, Kate had picked at her food as Glory, sensing her mood, made heroic conversational efforts to drag her out of her funk. But Kate had responded in monosyllables, if at all. Not even the experience of trying on outrageously expensive clothes and shoes in stylish Fifth Avenue boutiques had succeeded in cheering her up. Instead, as the afternoon dragged on, Kate had felt more and more anxious and brittle, her inner doubts mushrooming until they threatened to reach panic proportions. Finally, in the middle of Saks, she’d had enough. She had to get out or go crazy. Pleading exhaustion and a headache, she told Glory that she was going back to the hotel to take a nap. Glory, who was something of a binge shopper, kissed her distractedly on the cheek and sent her on her way with a chirpy “Feel better!” before making a beeline to the perfume counter.

  But once outside, Kate had turned north rather than south toward the Plaza. She had lied to her mother; sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. Instead, she walked up the block, then turned east and continued to Madison Avenue, where she caught an uptown bus to 83rd Street. From there she hurried west again, making for the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  This time, she hadn’t come to see the paintings. She was looking for Gabriel.

  When she tried to remember what the sidewalk artist looked like, all she could recall clearly was that he was a young black man who had been wearing a bright red beret. Nonetheless, she felt sure that she would recognize him immediately. There was a connection between them. He was sent to her on that day in November to prepare her for what was to come, though she hadn’t realized it at the time. No, then she had simply dismissed him as a harmless crank, a street preacher who baited his hook with skillful sketches and caricatures of passersby. And not until just days ago, when she’d learned that she was pregnant and understood for the first time the gravity of what was happening to her, had Kate remembered the sketch he had given her and that she had thrust, unlooked at, into her purse. A sketch of herself and her baby.

  Madonna and child.

  Gabriel had known. Had tried to tell her. But she’d been frightened, annoyed. She’d pushed him away. If only she had listened! He could have told her so much. But maybe it wasn’t too late. She would find him, talk to him. Make him tell her what he knew. Really, though, she understood subconsciously that what she was looking for from him wasn’t illumination but absolution. The assurance that God would forgive her for what she was about to do.

  When she reached the museum, the sidewalks were empty of artists. There were only pedestrians walking quickly to minimize their exposure to the cold. A lone vendor was selling hot dogs, his cart wreathed in steam. Kate stood across Fifth Avenue, gaping in shock. A group of Japanese tourists hurried past her, rushing to beat the traffic light, laughing excitedly among themselves. Somewhere a car alarm started whooping. She felt like an idiot. Of course there would be no sidewalk sketch artists plying their trades in the middle of winter!

  When there was a gap in traffic, Kate crossed the street. She was in a kind of daze, moving as if in a dream. Although logically it should have been neither surprising nor disappointing not to find Gabriel here, someone she had met only once, months ago, a needle in the haystack of New York’s teeming millions, Kate nevertheless felt both those emotions now. In fact, quite unexpectedly she found herself on the verge of tears. All of a sudden it seemed to her that Gabriel’s absence was purposeful, an indication that God had rejected her. Abandoned her. But hadn’t she abandoned Him first? She had refused His gift. His child.

  Yet, if He didn’t want her to have the abortion, why had He sent Glory to her that night? Why had He put the idea of coming to New York into her mother’s mind?

  There were no answers, only the bite of the wind.

  More out of desperation than hope, Kate climbed the stairs to the museum and went inside. Methodically, she searched the crowded galleries, studying the faces of young black males so intently that she received her share of curious, annoyed, or flirtatious looks in return. But none of them were Gabriel. More than once, a flash of red glimpsed out of the corner of her eye made her think that she had spotted his beret, but on second look the color always resolved into something else: a scarf, a handbag, a baseball cap.

  Gradually, she accepted the reality that she wasn’t going to find him.

  There was nothing for her here. Even the paintings and statues that she normally found so comforting withheld that comfort now.

  That was when she thought of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

  The holy church, with its encompassing, murmurous spaces, its smells of burning candles and old wood, had always been a kind of refuge for her on her visits to the city, a place for unhurried reflection and quiet solitude where she could regain her equilibrium when the sights, sounds, and frenetic pace of Manhattan grew overwhelming. She almost ached physically for the solace it had offered her in the past. Surely it wouldn’t reject her. There, in that oasis of calm spirituality in the middle of the clamorous city, she felt that her prayers would be heard and answered. God would speak to her and assure her that she was doing the right thing.

  She’d left the museum and climbed on a downtown bus, but its progress was excruciatingly slow, as it stopped at what seemed like every block to let dozens of people off and on. Finally, too impatient to wait any longer, she got off and made her way on foot, still keeping her eyes peeled for any sight of Gabriel.

  It was almost five thirty; the setting sun was out of sight behind the skyscrapers of the west side, and the city was sunk in evening shadows fast deepening into twilight. The streetlamps were on, as were the headlights of cars and buses. The air seemed to grow colder by the block. Soon a light snow began to fall, crystals glinting like shards of fallen star stuff. It was beautiful, like some fairy-tale snow-globe vision of Manhattan, but Kate barely noticed. As more and more people left work, the Fifth Ave nue sidewalk down which she was hurrying came to resemble a human obstacle course, and she focused her attention on navigating it as quickly as possible.

  At last she reached the cathedral, all lit up like a fortress of white marble.

  As soon as she entered, a soothing balm settled over her soul. Warmth bloomed in her bones as the sounds of the street faded. The fragrance of burning incense and wax candles filled her nostrils, and her ears echoed with the soft susurrations of whispered prayers rising up to the cavernous vault of the ceiling like smoke. She took off her hat, unwound her scarf, letting it hang freely over her shoulders, and opened her heavy coat.

  She hesitated, then dipped a finger into the font of holy water and, with a trembling hand, made the sign of the cross. What had she expected? That her skin would burn at the water’s touch like the flesh of a vampire? The water was cool, no more.

  Dipping her knee as she passed before the altar, Kate went around to the left side aisle and walked about halfway down before easing into an empty pew. She sat, relieved to finally be off her feet. Then she folded down the kneeler attached to the bottom of the pew in front of her and slid onto her knees, bowed her head, and prayed silently, fiercely, asking for guidance, a sign to let her know that she was doing the right thing. Or even the wrong thing. Just some indication that she wasn’t all alone in the world.

  When she looked up, she noticed that a row of three confessionals was in operation. A red light shone above each one to indicate that it was occupied by a penitent; as Kate watched, a door opened in one of the confessionals and an elderly man emerged, leaning heavily on a cane. The door shut behind him, and a moment later the red light was replaced by a green one, signaling that the priest was ready to hear another confession. A plump, middle-aged Asian woman in business attire rose quickly from a nearby pew and bustled over, disappearing inside. Click, and the light was red again. Kate’s heart quickened. She felt sure this was the sign she had prayed for.

  Kate got to her feet and went over to that area of the ca
thedral. There were a few others ahead of her, so she took a seat and waited her turn. She didn’t know what she was going to say to the priest, but that didn’t matter; as soon as she’d seen the confessionals, she’d known that her steps had been guided here. Soon all her doubts would be answered.

  She twisted the ends of her scarf in her fingers as the minutes dragged by. Each of the people before her seemed to be taking forever. What could they possibly be talking about? Whatever it was, she felt quite certain that the problems of these men and women paled to insignificance before her own, and even though she knew it wasn’t very Christian of her, she couldn’t help resenting them a little for making her wait so long.

  At last it was her turn. She hurried into the confessional and knelt before the grill that separated her from the priest, making the sign of the cross for a second time. The small space was dimly lit and seemed to carry in its close and complex atmosphere a trace of every person who had ever knelt there, a mix of perfumes, human sweat, cigarette smoke, damp wool, and other things she could smell but couldn’t put a name to. It occurred to her that she was smelling what was left over after a sin had been confessed and absolution bestowed upon the sinner by the priest, a stale effluvium made up of the aftermath of countless tawdry transgressions. She wondered what traces her confession would leave behind.

  From the other side of the grill, there was a sharp click as the priest flicked the switch to turn on the red light. After a few seconds of silence, he cleared his throat somewhat impatiently.

  “B—bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Kate said in a shaky voice. “It’s been three weeks since my last confession.” She wasn’t sure what to say after that, so she didn’t say anything. She thought back to her last confession, at St. John the Baptist, and how she’d recited her usual litany of boring sins: pride, envy, sloth; how she’d snapped at Glory, argued with her father about homework, and taken the name of the Lord in vain on two occasions. It seemed so trivial now.