Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 26.1: May 9th, 2010
"Caramel Kisses" is an unfinished novel I began to write back in 2009 and stopped working on in 2010. The two main characters - Adriana Maguire Reynard and Emma Burking - would ultimately be revised for my later completed novella, "The Liffey Is Half-Asleep," in 2011. Several elements of "Liffey" can be found in their original forms in "Caramel Kisses," such as the characters' names, the haiku scene, and Adriana's penchant for writing.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Twelve
by Belinda Roddie
I went to church this morning, while Emma was still asleep. The first time in five years. I had gone to a Wednesday mass on campus when I was still a student, but I didn’t think those really counted toward the main tally God supposedly kept for all of His alleged followers. But staying up through a Saturday night had gotten to my religious side, downsized like a department in a business corporation. So I let my body move before my presumed logical side could protest, dressed in my alleged Sunday best, and walked to the Star of the Sea Roman Catholic Church.
By the time I got there, there was no mass being held, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t here for the presentation, and my awkward combination of black blazer over a cheap collared shirt and khaki wasn’t quite the sort of dress code these churches normally held up as religious standards. I wasn’t here for the wafer on my tongue and the wine in my mouth – in fact, I hadn’t really considered myself a true part of the church for years. I had obviously chosen a lifestyle that had been compared to global warming, as if I’d apparently pollute the earth like car exhaust just by laying my hands on female flesh instead of male. How about divorce? I wondered to myself as I pushed open the oaken doors and let the colors of the stained glass wash over me like a cleansing filter. Or adultery? It’d help for you to focus on an actual crisis. Just to let you know.
Still, being in this sort of atmosphere was oddly comfortable. Not comforting, no. This was a place which doors were no longer really open to me, and I had to force myself into the light of the stained glass only to see churchgoers look on with furrowed brows. I moved to one of the empty pews, let myself settle against the wooden backing of the seat. I stared at Jesus before me, who kept his heavy head down, his eyes averted to the floor, nailed to his worldly obligation figuratively and literally.
My knees popped loudly as I knelt on the padded board. Prayers were given cushions now, as if wood against our kneecaps was too harsh, that it brought us too close to real tension and pain. I sank against the pew in front of me, fingers clasped together, drawing in breath through my mouth as my eyes flickered across the altar. Images of saints leered at me from all sides – sharp, unforgiving faces, carved and pointed glass, flat with the color draining from them as the sunlight dissipated and moved to set the roof of the church alight in holy fire. They were staring at me. Like priests of my past, they clucked their tongues and shook their heads and drew deep, heavy sighs.
Call me a sinner all you want, I thought to myself, and I let my eyes drift to the crucifix again, challenging the great sufferer. Call me a sinner if I act upon my so-called weaknesses. You know nothing. I left the church because You could not understand me, no matter how much I tried to understand You. But You know nothing. You’re like a father who kicked Your daughter out of the house. You scolded me and felt ashamed that I shared Your blood. You’re ashamed that You created me, so You showed me the door. Well, now I’m back, and You probably think I’m going to be like the prodigal son. You know nothing. I tried loving You. But apparently You can’t love me when I’m not the usual automated disciple.
And yet, I could not blame Him. That great playwright in the sky. He had set the drama before me, but he was no actor in it. The priests denounced me and who I was almost every homily. They tried to give compromises as if the homosexual could be pitted against the psychopath. They knew nothing, God knew everything. Oh, Adriana, you fool. Do not blame your Father when it has been your brothers who have kicked you, who have attempted to cram His senile head with storytelling.
I prayed for the first time in five years. And I mean I really prayed. I prayed for everyone besides me, because I knew if the priests were right, I could not be saved. I would not be saved from my own vices. If I gave up a pleasure, it would only be replaced. A vice for another vice. An addiction for another addiction. And yet, could I truly be addicted to something that seemed so natural of my humanity? Could I?
To the sick and needy, I pray to the Lord. To the criminals, I pray to the Lord. To the dictators, I pray to the Lord. The dead. The mourners. The tax collectors. I prayed for them. They deserved it more than I did. They deserved it more than a nervous, fidgeting lesbian did. I knew where God’s priorities should lie. I at least was an intelligent Christian, if not an intelligent somewhat ex-communicated Catholic.
I rose from the pew and my knees whined at my half-assed humility. I didn’t care. The colors of the windows were growing thin, lighting up my face and hair with amber and gold dwindling like the day itself. I stretched my fingers forward, attempting to touch those glassy hues, and it was then that I knew I wanted this. I wanted Emma and I wanted her to be with me for the rest of my life. I wanted her there to read my plays and come back home every day smelling like cinnamon and sugar, speaking in that British inflection that made the nerves behind my eyes and ears burn with a sharp, electric sort of passion. Oh, Emma, my queen, you are a gift from God no matter how the priests wag their tongues at me and I wag my tongue at their Messiah. And I thank Him for that, oh God I thank You for all of this. You who has drawn apart the crimson curtains, lit up the arena for me to play my part.
I heard doors behind me creak open and I turned to see a man in a Roman collar approach the altar. He looked me up and down as he drew closer, opened his mouth as if to ask me if I needed anything. But I felt full from my mental tirades and emotional conclusions like they were the body of Christ himself, and I didn’t need a wafer for that feeling. I nodded to the priest and left him standing there, watching me with a watery, contemplating eye. I did not stay to hear the snapping of his tongue.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Twelve
by Belinda Roddie
I went to church this morning, while Emma was still asleep. The first time in five years. I had gone to a Wednesday mass on campus when I was still a student, but I didn’t think those really counted toward the main tally God supposedly kept for all of His alleged followers. But staying up through a Saturday night had gotten to my religious side, downsized like a department in a business corporation. So I let my body move before my presumed logical side could protest, dressed in my alleged Sunday best, and walked to the Star of the Sea Roman Catholic Church.
By the time I got there, there was no mass being held, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t here for the presentation, and my awkward combination of black blazer over a cheap collared shirt and khaki wasn’t quite the sort of dress code these churches normally held up as religious standards. I wasn’t here for the wafer on my tongue and the wine in my mouth – in fact, I hadn’t really considered myself a true part of the church for years. I had obviously chosen a lifestyle that had been compared to global warming, as if I’d apparently pollute the earth like car exhaust just by laying my hands on female flesh instead of male. How about divorce? I wondered to myself as I pushed open the oaken doors and let the colors of the stained glass wash over me like a cleansing filter. Or adultery? It’d help for you to focus on an actual crisis. Just to let you know.
Still, being in this sort of atmosphere was oddly comfortable. Not comforting, no. This was a place which doors were no longer really open to me, and I had to force myself into the light of the stained glass only to see churchgoers look on with furrowed brows. I moved to one of the empty pews, let myself settle against the wooden backing of the seat. I stared at Jesus before me, who kept his heavy head down, his eyes averted to the floor, nailed to his worldly obligation figuratively and literally.
My knees popped loudly as I knelt on the padded board. Prayers were given cushions now, as if wood against our kneecaps was too harsh, that it brought us too close to real tension and pain. I sank against the pew in front of me, fingers clasped together, drawing in breath through my mouth as my eyes flickered across the altar. Images of saints leered at me from all sides – sharp, unforgiving faces, carved and pointed glass, flat with the color draining from them as the sunlight dissipated and moved to set the roof of the church alight in holy fire. They were staring at me. Like priests of my past, they clucked their tongues and shook their heads and drew deep, heavy sighs.
Call me a sinner all you want, I thought to myself, and I let my eyes drift to the crucifix again, challenging the great sufferer. Call me a sinner if I act upon my so-called weaknesses. You know nothing. I left the church because You could not understand me, no matter how much I tried to understand You. But You know nothing. You’re like a father who kicked Your daughter out of the house. You scolded me and felt ashamed that I shared Your blood. You’re ashamed that You created me, so You showed me the door. Well, now I’m back, and You probably think I’m going to be like the prodigal son. You know nothing. I tried loving You. But apparently You can’t love me when I’m not the usual automated disciple.
And yet, I could not blame Him. That great playwright in the sky. He had set the drama before me, but he was no actor in it. The priests denounced me and who I was almost every homily. They tried to give compromises as if the homosexual could be pitted against the psychopath. They knew nothing, God knew everything. Oh, Adriana, you fool. Do not blame your Father when it has been your brothers who have kicked you, who have attempted to cram His senile head with storytelling.
I prayed for the first time in five years. And I mean I really prayed. I prayed for everyone besides me, because I knew if the priests were right, I could not be saved. I would not be saved from my own vices. If I gave up a pleasure, it would only be replaced. A vice for another vice. An addiction for another addiction. And yet, could I truly be addicted to something that seemed so natural of my humanity? Could I?
To the sick and needy, I pray to the Lord. To the criminals, I pray to the Lord. To the dictators, I pray to the Lord. The dead. The mourners. The tax collectors. I prayed for them. They deserved it more than I did. They deserved it more than a nervous, fidgeting lesbian did. I knew where God’s priorities should lie. I at least was an intelligent Christian, if not an intelligent somewhat ex-communicated Catholic.
I rose from the pew and my knees whined at my half-assed humility. I didn’t care. The colors of the windows were growing thin, lighting up my face and hair with amber and gold dwindling like the day itself. I stretched my fingers forward, attempting to touch those glassy hues, and it was then that I knew I wanted this. I wanted Emma and I wanted her to be with me for the rest of my life. I wanted her there to read my plays and come back home every day smelling like cinnamon and sugar, speaking in that British inflection that made the nerves behind my eyes and ears burn with a sharp, electric sort of passion. Oh, Emma, my queen, you are a gift from God no matter how the priests wag their tongues at me and I wag my tongue at their Messiah. And I thank Him for that, oh God I thank You for all of this. You who has drawn apart the crimson curtains, lit up the arena for me to play my part.
I heard doors behind me creak open and I turned to see a man in a Roman collar approach the altar. He looked me up and down as he drew closer, opened his mouth as if to ask me if I needed anything. But I felt full from my mental tirades and emotional conclusions like they were the body of Christ himself, and I didn’t need a wafer for that feeling. I nodded to the priest and left him standing there, watching me with a watery, contemplating eye. I did not stay to hear the snapping of his tongue.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 9th, 2010.
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