Gregg Sapp

Pray

“Pray with me, please,” Ma said, intercepting Grace’s hand short of the doorknob by brushing her fingertips lightly across her wrist. “I’m scared.”

Her touch sparked static electricity, like a brief flicker of lapsed conscience. Saying goodbye to Ma was always complicated, given that every time she left her, Grace could not help thinking that it might be the last time she saw her alive. 

As a matter of principle, Grace was reluctant to indulge Ma’s churchgoing delusions, but not so much as to overtly refute them. Zorah called it a cop out, but if believing in pie-in-the-sky provided her old lady with some measure of comfort in her frailty, Grace regarded it a duty — not to mention more practical — to humor her. Confronting her over God was a lose-lose proposition. 

But to pray with her? That felt worse than just benign dishonesty. To a Freedom from Religion Society dues paying and card-carrying atheist, praying was akin to ideological treason.  

“Ma, it’s late,” Grace said, which was both untrue and irrelevant, but it was the best rationalization she could come up with on the spur of the moment. 

“Just five minutes longer,” Ma begged. “Is that too much to ask?” 

Grace felt a brick of guilt sink into her gut. That question reminded her of being ten years old and pleading with her parents for “just five more minutes” before turning off the lights at bedtime. Then as now, the truth was that five minutes were not too much to ask, in terms of the minor concession in time and effort compared to the gratitude it would yield. Back then, Ma acted magnanimous when granting the brief reprieve, but Pa only permitted those extra minutes on the condition that she spend them in prayer. The irony, now, was haunting.   

“Okay, five minutes,” Grace said. Now what? she thought. 

Ma parked her wheelchair beside a wingback settee, next to the homemade shrine in her room. She patted a cushion and called Grace, “Here.” This piece of antiquated furniture was one of the few things she salvaged from their old home. Some of Grace’s fondest childhood memories were of squeezing between her mother and Remy in that same chair, watching their favorite TV show, “Xena Warrior Princess,” always when her father was not home because he thought that show was a bad influence on them. It irritated Pa that Grace sat still to watch mind-warping television shows for hours on end but fidgeted constantly in the pew at St. Matthias Church during Father Duffy’s homilies. “Shut up, sit still, and pray,” he ordered her, to no avail.    

Ma crossed herself, then took both of Grace’s hands and wrapped her own hands over them, creating a four-handed fist. The tendons in her forearms were taut and quivering, as if exerting great pressure, although to Grace her grip felt about as solid as buttered bread.   

“Hail Mary,” Ma began, then paused, expecting Grace to join in.  

Uh oh, Grace thought. Instantly upon hearing those words, the prayer replayed fully formed in her mind. Having had the Hail Mary inculcated into her brain as a kid, she could no more forget its words than she could her full name — Grace Maria Elizabeth-Seton Quinn. She associated the Hail Mary with penance, for as a child she must have said a thousand rosaries, prescribed by Father Duffy for assorted transgressions of thought and deed. 

Praying out loud was almost more blatant hypocrisy than Grace thought she could stomach. Prayer agitated inner anxieties correlated with guilt, shame, regret, failure, grief, fraud, and assorted other personality disorders that she was still working on to get over. Even so, this wouldn’t be the first time she tolerated her mother’s prayers on occasions when to refuse them would too deeply wound the old lady. When Grace told her mother that she and Gavin were divorcing, Ma prayed for God to have mercy on them. She likewise prayed for Grace’s recovery when she broke down and admitted that she was an alcoholic. Ma prayed perhaps the hardest for God to forgive Grace when she finally came out of the closet and admitted that she was a lesbian. Ma believed that she had the power — indeed, the obligation — to appeal to God on Grace’s behalf, to show her a viable path to salvation. Likewise, Grace inadvertently encouraged that fantasy by allowing her mother to pray for her, even though she believed that prayer was nothing more than intellectual placebo. Neither judged the other, but they both were certain that the other was wrong.   

Nevertheless, Grace had never acknowledged to Ma that she was an atheist. That was a line she was loath to cross. In her mother’s mind, denying God was the only truly unforgiveable sin. So, if she could appease the old lady by muttering some meaningless mumbo jumbo, she was willing to spit it out, even if she had to swallow her own integrity to speak those words. She didn’t want to be responsible for triggering palpitations in her mother’s already failing heart.  

Grace sucked it up and said: Hail Mary, full of grace,

***

The Lord is with thee…

Grace couldn’t last to the end of her first AA meeting. The group dynamics – the hugs from strangers, the clownish grins, and the unwanted attention directed to her – felt creepy. What really pushed her out the door, though, was the God part.  

She should have known that any meeting held in the basement of a Catholic church would arouse unpleasant feelings. At the start, the meeting’s chairperson invoked the Serenity Prayer to bless their ritual, and everybody parroted it along with her. Grace remained seated and silent when the chairperson asked if anybody was attending their first ever AA meeting — what business of it was theirs, anyway? It didn’t matter; somehow, they knew anyway. The chairperson said “welcome” to nobody in particular, but several heads turned toward her.  

During the meeting, members took turns introducing themselves and telling stories or sharing opinions on the suggested topic, which, ironically, was “grace.” That also made Grace bristle, as if it was a personal insult. She cringed every time somebody mentioned God, and it didn’t help when they euphemized the deity as some sort of nebulous “Higher Power.” Not one of them described “grace” as a quality of a person’s character, without attributing it to God’s glory. What finally compelled her to flee was when one person said, “Let go and let God,” whatever that meant. “Puh-lease,” Grace groaned, unintentionally out loud. She felt the burn of a roomful of harsh glances.    

Once outside, Grace muttered to herself, “fuckin’ cult.”  

“True that,” somebody said.  

Grace had noticed this woman lurking outside of the meeting room, although evidently, she never entered. She sat cross-legged on a bench in the church rose garden, next to a statue of Jesus. She wore a camouflage polyester mini dress and high-rise fishnet stockings over wedge sandals, with a diamond stud through her left nostril and concentric silver hoop earrings. She had smoky black hair and cat eyeshadow deepening her pale features. The statue of Jesus was gazing skyward, as if uncomfortable being next to her.  

“Uh, sorry,” Grace said. “I was just talking to myself.” 

“Not so. You were thinking out loud. There’s a difference.” 

“There is?” 

“Yes. Those people inside are talking to themselves. There’s no evidence, though, that any of them are actually thinking, aloud or otherwise.” 

Grace wasn’t sure if that comment was supposed to be funny, but she laughed anyway, more relieved than amused. Zorah introduced herself according to a parody of AA protocol, “Hi. My name is Zorah, and I’m an alcoholic atheistic lesbian, the bane and terror of god-fearing people everywhere.”  

Grace marveled that anybody would so casually reveal any of those things about herself to a stranger in a church garden. Far from shocking her, though, Zorah’s candor short-circuited Grace’s defense mechanisms, leaving space enough for her to be intrigued.  

“I’m Grace. I don’t know what I am,” she said.   

“Oh, I think you do, deep down,” Zorah replied. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have walked out.” 

“Knowing what I am not isn’t the same as not knowing what I am.”   

Zorah whistled and remarked, “That’s profound.” She removed a business card from her buckled purse and handed it to Grace; it bore the name and contact information for a coffee shop called The Fertile Bean. Its motto was It’s a good day to brew. 

“What this?” 

“To be honest, I often loiter around AA meetings looking for deserters,” Zorah admitted. “It’s a fruitful place for recruiting members for a secular, all women’s recovery group, which meets at the Bean.” 

Grace figured she had some time to spare. “I could use a cup,” she said.           

When they walked into The Fertile Bean, the barista and several customers greeted Zorah, and in return she made a gesture of a clenched fist with thumb protruding between the index and middle fingers. They took a seat in a dark booth beneath a painting of a cleft, dripping watermelon that resembled female genitalia. Zorah ordered Chai tea; Grace did the same. She looked around and wondered if all the women in attendance were alcoholic atheistic lesbians, too — and if so, what in the hell was she doing there. 

“What happens during these meetings?” Grace asked.  

“Sacrilege. We’re all blasphemers,” Zorah admitted. “But, sober ones.”  

There was something familiar in Zorah’s blithe irreverence. It reminded Grace of herself on those halcyon Friday nights on North High Street, when she was one of Saint Francis DeSales High School’s naughty girls who shed their blue blazers and pleated skirts for tight jeans and halter tops, lied about their age, and broke commandments they bragged about to each other, but never confessed to a priest.  

“I bet you were raised Catholic,” Grace guessed.  

Zorah gestured a three-fingered benediction, and said, “It is right and just.” 

“I can always tell,” Grace declared, pleased with herself.  

Grace stuck around for the meeting that evening. Had Zorah not told her that it was an alcoholism recovery group, she would never have guessed. Neither atheism nor lesbianism were readily apparent among the members, at least not in any way that she — naively, she later realized —presumed would be evident, like butch haircuts, armpit hair, skull tattoos, or conspicuous man hating. The most frequent topics of discussion were arts-related, like foreign movies Grace had never heard of or plays in small local theaters she didn’t know existed. Zorah announced that she had an exhibit of Druid-themed ceramic sculptures opening in a Short North gallery. At the end of the meeting, one woman who had been silently writing in a spiral notebook throughout read aloud the poem she just composed. The women embraced in an arm over arm group hug, and as one chanted, “Peace.”  

That was it. Done.    

“Come back any time,” Zorah said to Grace as the meeting was breaking up. “We are here to help you.” 

Grace hazarded, “Okay,” although more to expedite an amicable exit than because she expected to ever return.  

While driving home, Grace deconstructed the evening in her mind.  She gave herself more time to think by driving past her house, all the way to the county line and back again. Uncharacteristically, she did not feel the urge to stop for a drink. Finally, when she pulled into the driveway, Ma was waiting while looking out the living room window. She accosted her on the porch, “I hope you haven’t been drinking.”  

“I went to an AA meeting,” Grace said, somewhat truthfully.  

“Thank God,” Ma called out, then broke into grateful tears.  

***

Blessed art thou amongst women
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

For six years, Grace was thorough and resourceful at hiding the sordid excesses of her drinking from Gavin, until she got a DUI and could not conceal it any longer. Even then, he believed her when she promised to never drink again. The poor, duplicitous fool, he was clueless, no matter how egregiously Grace abused his earnest and trusting nature. In retrospect, she realized that she was unconsciously trying to sabotage their marriage. The reason why, exactly, eluded her until long after she succeeded.  

Gavin made it clear from the outset of their union that he wanted a family. Grace said she did, too, but later. After five years, believing that his wife was genuinely clean and sober, he suggested that it was a fortuitous time for them to begin procreating. Grace agreed and acted accordingly, for she feared that doing otherwise would call attention to her surreptitious drinking. Having become accustomed to lying to Gavin, it did not especially bother her to lie to him about taking birth control, too. Months passed; she pretended to be disappointed when she failed to get pregnant. To maintain the subterfuge, she went so far as to accompany Gavin to a fertility clinic to discuss issues and options. Providing the semen sample embarrassed him like an adolescent caught in the shower, but he did it, and when his sperm tested viable, she knew that she had exhausted every possible lie. The ensuing brouhaha proved fatal to their marriage. Her deception provided Gavin with inarguable grounds from the Church for seeking an annulment; they not only separated, but in the eyes of God, they were never actually wed in the first place. If only the Church could have nullified her guilt, too.  

Single again, Grace returned home to the Old North side of Columbus, to her mother. When she showed up on the porch, with all her possessions contained in the three suitcases by her feet, Ma met Grace with hugs and tears, and she thanked God for having answered her prayers.  

“Really, Ma?” Grace asked. 

As Grace soon discovered, after Pa’s death, prayer had come to occupy vastly increased amounts of her mother’s time. Whereas before Ma often slept in on Sundays, leaving the old man to go to church “for” her, she now attended Holy Mass five days a week. She constructed a home shrine on a marble, halfmoon table next to the corridor leading to the bedrooms. On its surface were a rosary, a scapular, a Douay-Rheims Bible, palm fronds, a vial of holy water, ceramic statues of the archangels Michael, Gabriel, and Rafael, and a row of votive candles. Hanging on the wall to one side was an iron Christ the King crucifix, on the other a Sacred Heart of Mary mosaic plaque, and in between, an Olan Mills family portrait, taken while the old man was still alive, before Grace had gotten married and Remy was home in between tours of duty in Iraq. The kneeler on the floor in front of the shrine bore imprints of the old lady’s knees. It felt like Ma had become a nun. 

For the first few weeks after moving in, Grace spent most of the time when she was home drinking vodka in her room. She got off work and went straight from her Target uniform into her pajamas. If Ma knocked at the door to inquire if she was okay, Grace would reply “Fine,” “Hunky Dory,” Just Peachy,” or, if she was really drunk, “Chillinnaaah.” Whatever her response, Ma’s next action was always the same—to pray for her. 

One night, instead of knocking on the door, Ma pushed it open with her shoulder, so fast as to rustle the curtains. There was no time for Grace to hide the bottle of vodka on the nightstand. Ma stopped after a single step into the room, and said, “I’m so sorry.”   

This puzzled Grace. Sorry for what? She wanted to shout back at the old lady that she had no right to feel sorry for her, that she owned all her faults and accepted their consequences. But starting an argument would have impeded her ability to continue drinking, so she said only, Leave me alone.”            

“Did you know that there are Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in the basement at St. Matthias. You should go.” 

“I’d sooner go to the dentist for a root canal.” 

Ma winced. “God will show the way,” she said as she left the room.  

From that moment onward, the air in the house seemed to reverberate with prayer. Grace could sense whenever Ma prayed for her; it was like being stalked by a voyeuristic guardian angel, kind of irksome but also kind of comforting. Even though Grace didn’t believe one bit in the putative “power of prayer,” it reassured her that her mother still believed she was worthy of it.   

Her mother’s prayers were indeed answered, just not in the way she would have preferred. After managing to stay white knuckled sober for a month, Grace moved into an efficiency apartment on Cleveland Avenue, assuring her mother, “I’ll be fine.” She was not. Alone with her shame, she relapsed within days. That’s when, as a last resort, she decided to give AA a try… and wound up at The Fertile Bean, instead.  

After her experience the Bean, Grace thought about going back for a week before she conjured the courage to do it. Zorah rose when she saw her come in and met her at the door, saying, “I’ve been hoping you’d find your way back.”  

Not only had she found her way back, she stayed this time.  

***

Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for Us Sinners

“What kind of bread?” Grace asked. It seemed like a valid question, because bread in one form or another was central to their shared religious upbringing.   

To Zorah, the answer was obvious. “Wonder bread, as white as Elmer’s glue, cottage cheese, or a blank sheet of paper.” 

“Perfect,” Grace agreed. 

Once Grace abandoned herself entirely to being an atheist, she gained all the surety and comfort of a religious conversion, minus the God part. 

Ever since high school, she had nursed vague skepticism about the existence of an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, and omnibenevolent God the Father. It seemed like a fairy tale. Still, she never invested serious enough thought into the nature or implications of her doubts to make a declaration. During college, she was too busy having the time of her life to think about her immortal soul, or her studies for that matter; she dropped out after two years. During the early years of their marriage, she went through the motions of being a Catholic spouse; but after the annulment, whenever she was asked to state a religious affiliation, she chose the “none” option. Grace equated that with being a free thinker, unbeholden to any creed while remaining objective toward all possibilities. Ironically, though, it also discouraged her from thinking it through. None-ism a facile ideology well suited to a life of making excuses.  

In the process of getting sober, Grace not only attended the atheist lesbian alcoholic recovery meetings at the Fertile Bean Coffee House, but Zorah got her a job there as a barista. “I’ll make a heretic out of you yet,” she said. Grace interpreted that as a dare.  

Prior to joining the Fertile Bean tribe, Grace treated her doubts like secrets. Among the Beaners, though, being an atheist was more than just passive disbelief; it was an active lifestyle. It couldn’t be faked. They made rituals of laughing at Biblical contradictions and pointing out the fallacies and hypocrisies of believers of all creeds. They were equal opportunity blasphemers, counting among their members ex-Jews, ex-Mormons, ex-evangelicals and ex-Protestants of all flavors, an ex-Amish transgender lesbian, and, of course, ex-Catholics, which Zorah claimed “make the best atheists, because they have more rules to break.” Amid the comfort of this proud community of pagans and apostates, Grace bolstered her sobriety as she reexamined her sexuality. An atheist at last, she could finally embrace being a lesbian, too.  

Still, acknowledging that she did not believe in something did nothing to provide her with something that she could believe in, such as herself. She admitted to Zorah that she was still a work in progress.  

“You need to put your lack of faith into action,” Zorah decreed. “And I have an idea.” 

Annually, the Knights of Columbus sponsored a traditional Christmas nativity scene on the statehouse lawn. Zorah filed a petition on behalf of the Freedom from Religion Society invoking the First Amendment and the Establishment Clause to request permission to install their own holiday display on those same public grounds. On a frigid, late November morning Zorah, Grace, and a couple other Beaners went to the statehouse, where they set about creating their own mock nativity scene.  

Passersby on the busy downtown sidewalk stopped to watch, some to heckle. “Rot in hell,” one woman shouted. 

“And also with you,” Zorah shouted back.  

The manger was constructed from milk crates and corrugated aluminum panels that shook in the wind. The virgin Mary was a bundle of corn stalks wearing a shawl, with the cutout face of Xena Warrior Princess (Grace’s contribution). Joseph was a poorly stuffed scarecrow sporting a fake nose and glasses. Balthasar, Melchior, and Gaspar—the three wise men—were lawn jockeys. Dangling from a bungee cord, the Angel Gabriel, a winged crash test dummy, bounced up and down. And lying in a picnic basket, a loaf of Wonder bread with a halo substituted for the Christ child.  

When they were finished, the Beaners stood back to admire their statement. “That’s all folks,” Zorah said. “Our work here is done.” 

Leaving the scene was not so easy, though. To get back to where they parked the van, the Beaners had to traverse a disapproving crowd that gathered on the sidewalk behind them. Grace kept her head down and let Zorah lead the interference. Amid the catcalls and threats of divine retribution, Grace recognized one voice. Bristling, she scanned the faces and saw Remy; he was wearing black reflective sunglasses, but she was certain that he was staring bullets straight at her.  

“Fuck ‘em,” Zorah said to the others once they reached the other side of the street. Then, speaking into Grace’s ear, she added, “if they can’t take a joke.” 

A joke? Certainly, Remy would not see it that way. What he thought mattered little to Grace, but what he might say to their old lady did worry her. Grace decided that it was better for her to reveal the truth herself than for Remy to break the news to Ma in his typically tactless way.  

That same evening, Grace told her mother that she happened to be in the neighborhood when she dropped by the old house, interrupting Ma during her evening prayers. They drank ginger ale and talked about Christmas cards received, the chances for snow, and other platitudes that only increased Grace’s anxiety, until she let it out… 

“Ma, I have something to tell you. Please don’t judge.”  

Her mother pressed her palms together, under her throat.  

Grace exhaled twice, lingering on the second breath. She lost her will, although now that she’d worried her mother, she had to say something. Finally, she blurted out, “Ma, I’m a lesbian.” 

***

Now and at the hour of our death.

When at age 70 Ma had a minor stroke and lay prone, unable to wrest herself upright for 36 hours before the mailman found her, Remy decided that enough was enough; with her degenerative disk disease, bad heart, and now this, she had to go to a senior living center, for her own good. He took charge of making all arrangements. As soon as he got her settled at the Village of Incarnate Word, he sold the old house, purportedly profiting just enough to pay for Ma’s ongoing care and feeding, although he declined to show Grace the books and claimed to be deeply offended that she didn’t trust him.  

“It’s those femi-nazis you hang out with,” he said. “They’ve brainwashed you.” 

Whatever, Grace thought.  

“I’m glad that Pa isn’t here to see you now. He’d blow his top.” 

That was a low blow, even for Remy. It was true, but still a low blow.  

“Whatever,” Grace said aloud. 

“You do know that Ma worries herself sick about you, right?” 

That was even lower. Remy knew that Grace did not give a rat’s ass about his opinions, but he could always provoke a reaction by guilt tripping her over their mother’s fragile mental and physical disposition. 

“That’s between Ma and me,” Grace replied.  

“And God,” Remy added.   

Over time, Grace and her brother developed a relationship strategy built upon benign avoidance and transactional communication. The compromise was based on an unspoken agreement that they must shield their mother from any appearance of disharmony between the two of them. Grace never mentioned Remy in Ma’s presence and hoped that he similarly respected their boundaries. Still, she distrusted his forbearance. Like a good Catholic, he loved gossip because it excused him to be self-righteous. Thus, Grace suspected that Remy was really the instigator of the plan when Ma called to ask her to join them attending the Christmas morning Mass together, as a family. It felt like he was daring her to make a stand.    

“It’s one hour of my time, and it will placate my old lady,” Grace explained to Zorah. 

“Whatever,” Zorah groaned in disapproval. 

The last time Grace had been in church was her father’s funeral, at a time when she was still married, still drinking, and still nominally Catholic. When she entered the church after so long an absence, the absurd notion occurred to her that the old man was watching them, from on high in heaven, or more likely through the haze of Purgatory.  

In life, Pa never missed Mass on Sunday or any holy day of obligation. Like some men have their “man caves,” Pa had church stuff. In his capacity as moderator of the Pastoral Council, Pa often had “business” with Father Duffy, which they invariably conducted over cigarettes, pork rinds and longneck bottles of Genesee Cream Ale. Ma stifled her objections, even though he sometimes returned home blackout drunk. In return, Pa did not object when Ma stayed home Sundays. Grace suspected that they liked it that way. 

Father Duffy walked down the aisle between rows of pews, flinging droplets of holy water from an aspergillum while chanting, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” Grace caught a bead of holy water right between the eyes. An altar boy followed, swinging an incense censer. It made Grace sneeze.  

Genuflecting before the Holy Eucharist, Father Duffy raised his arms over his head; the layers of his purple and white vestments rippled like aspen leaves. He chanted, “Lord Have Mercy.” 

“Lord Have Mercy” the congregants chanted back. 

Grace bowed her head, thinking Kill me now. 

When she raised her head again, Grace glanced across the pew at Remy, his wife, and two kids next to him, all with their missalettes open. Ma sat in her wheelchair at the end of the pew, the gatekeeper. Eerily, Grace also sensed Pa’s presence, standing to her left, like the ghost echo of an amputated limb.    

Grace remembered Father Duffy’s eulogy for her father, which began: “We are comforted with the certain knowledge that our beloved Patrick Joseph Quinn is now with God and his angels in heaven.” Meanwhile, all Grace could think about was her next drink.  

The priest called out, “Glory to God in the highest.” Automatically, she responded, “And peace to the people of Earth,” and then bit her tongue. 

Finally came the part of the high Mass that Grace dreaded most—Holy Communion. An usher invited the family to vacate the pew and queue in front of the altar to receive the sacrament. Grace sat unmoving while Remy pushed Ma out of the pew, and his family followed. Grace could almost feel Pa nudging her from behind. Still, she remained seated.  The others looked back at her with expressions ranging from Ma’s despair to Remy’s scorn.  

Father Duffy stood at the foot of the altar holding the ciborium containing the communal host, while next to him a deacon who looked not much older than the altar boys stood ready to offer the chalice of wine. Grace sighed dry breath over cracked lips. Her will to resist collapsed at the thought of the taste of the wine and the delicious sensation of it going down her throat.  

Fuck it, Grace thought.  If you’re going to sin, might as well sin big. She fell into line to receive the sacrament.

***

Somewhere between The Lord is with thee and at the hour of our death, the old lady ceased praying and started mildly snoring. Grace realized she’d spoken those words alone. The old lady’s hands had gone limp. She breathed in soft, erratic puffs. Grace backed away slowly, freeing her hands and then waving them in front of her mother’s face to test the depth of her slumber. It seemed like it should be a sin to fall asleep before finishing a prayer.    

Grace finished for her — Amen.  

Gregg Sapp, an Ohio native, is a Pinnacle Award-winning and Pushcart Prize-nominated author of the “Holidazed” series of satires, each of which is centered around a different holiday. To date, there are four books in the series: “Halloween from the Other Side,” “The Christmas Donut Revolution,” “Upside Down Independence Day,” and the latest, “Murder by Valentine Candy.” Previous books include "Dollarapalooza," set in a dollar store, and “Fresh News Straight from Heaven,” which is based on the folklore of Johnny Appleseed. He has published short fiction in Kestrel, Parody, Waypoints, Defenstration, Marathon Review, Zodiac Review, Semaphore, Goat's Milk, and contributed frequently to Midwestern Gothic. He lives in Tumwater, WA.