At the grocery store I was met with a similar pre-order.
“Have to admit,” Clark said as he helped me load my SUV, “I was surprised to hear your Grandma on the phone. She is almost a recluse. I think Father Ritchie checks in on her from time to time, but otherwise she doesn’t come out much anymore. What is she doing with all this stuff anyway?”
Something inside me told me to lie. “We’re going on a trip out west. You know how these old people are. She wanted to make sure we had enough.”
“You gonna rent an RV or something?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan.”
“Whoa, what are these?” Clark asked as he stumbled across the swords and fencing gear I had left in the back.
“Swords, actually. Well, I should be getting back,” I said, looking down at Grandma’s list. Clark waved goodbye, and I slid back into my SUV. The first two stops on the list were not difficult, but the next two puzzled me.
She left instructions for me to stop by “Campbell Feed and Lumber.” She knew very well that was the last place I would go. She wanted fifty pound sacks of corn and wheat flour. I looked up the street toward the shop. I waited. After a few moments Ian appeared on the loading dock outside the store. He lowered two large bags onto the back of a flatbed pickup. He laughed as he talked to the driver. I could almost see that funny wrinkle he gets in the corner of his mouth when he smiles. He waved goodbye to his customer and turned to go back inside but then stopped. He looked up the street, his eyes settling on my SUV. He took two steps down the loading platform toward me.
“Oh my god,” I whispered.
A moment later, Kristie, his wife, appeared at the shop door and called him back inside. He turned, casting one last look my way, and then went in.
“Bitch,” I whispered and turned the ignition over in my car and headed up Lakeview Drive toward the Catholic Church.
My grandmother was not a religious person. Whenever she was invited to go to church, she would decline, saying “no, no, no, I am Russian Orthodox,” and the conversation would end. Privately, however, I had never seen my grandma act in any way that was remotely Christian. In fact, some of her odd “old country” practices often had a pagan flavor.
When I got to the Catholic Church the doors were open. I stopped when I entered, taking a moment to smooth my hair, checking my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall just by the door. I was glad Grandma had made me take a shower. I pushed my thick black hair into a ponytail. The church candlelight made my green eyes sparkle.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked.
I turned to see Father Ritchie standing there. It had been years since I’d last seen him. He used to coach the boys high school basketball team. He looked so much older. “Father, I am Layla Petrovich. My grandmother asked me to come see you,” I replied.
“Ah yes, Layla. How is your grandmother?” He was quick to hide his confusion. I could almost hear him thinking: what is she doing here?
“I’m not sure, Father. But, regardless, my grandmother asked me to come and request holy water.”
“Whatever for?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. My grandmother has her ways, and most of the time I just do as she wants.”
Father Ritchie laughed. “Well, with Grandma Petrovich, I understand. Now, we are not in the practice of giving out holy water, but I suppose it won’t hurt anything. I’ll be back in a moment,” he said and went to the rectory.
I sat in the last pew and waited. I felt like a stranger in a strange land. The stained glass windows showed images of saints. The window closest to the pew where I sat had an image of St. Michael slaying a dragon. Behind me a statue of Mary stood over the votive prayer candles. Five candles were lit. Their flames cast glowing light on Mary’s elongated face and hands. The statue depicted Mary with overly-white skin and pale lips. She wore the lightest of blue robes. A small chip had come off one side of her nose, disfiguring her. It showed the gray plaster beneath. I closed my eyes. The images in the church bombarded me. I could not quiet my mind. Flashes appeared before my eyes, random unclear images. Then the face of a dead woman appeared before me; like Mary, her nose was torn off. She was grunting and biting at me through a fence. Though her decayed face was horrific, I noticed she had a striking red ribbon in her hair. I shuddered, my eyes popping open.
“Here you are, Layla. Can I expect you and Grandma to come to Mass this Sunday?”
“Thank you so much, Father. I appreciate it. No, I’m sorry. You know we are Russian Orthodox. Thank you again,” I said and hurriedly left the church.