The Water Keeper(8)

“I keep busy.”

She squeezed both arms, and then—invading every barrier of personal space I’d ever erected—she squeezed my pecs and patted my abs and butt. “I’ll say.” She thumbed behind her. Toward the water and what I could only assume was her boat. Lifting her rain jacket, she said, “He’s always working out. Nothing but muscle.”

I said nothing.

She continued, “What all you do here?”

“I mow the grass and keep the weeds down, and they give me a free place to stay.”

She considered this. “I never been in a church like this.”

She was looking at a far wall covered in weapons of archery from around the world. Handmade bows from more countries than I could count. Matching arrows. She walked an unsteady S to study the mementos. “These yours?”

“I used to travel a lot,” I responded.

“You’ve been a lot of places. I never . . . uh . . . I never been anywhere . . .” She feigned a smile. “But I’m about to.” She ran her fingers across the bows and arrows. “You Robin Hood?”

“No.” I’ve always had a thing for archery—seeing how various countries created energy through a stick and string amazed me—so I collected them on my trips. Whenever I bumped into one, I’d bring it home.

She mimicked the motion with her arms. “You shoot these?”

“No.”

“Why you keep them?”

“They’re reminders.”

“Of?”

“What I am.”

“What are you?”

I didn’t respond immediately. When I did, my voice was lower. “A sinner.”

She looked confused. “Well, me too, but what’s that got to do with . . .” She flipped her hand across the wall. “All this?”

“The term sinner grew out of an Old English archery term from the thirteenth century.”

“What’s it mean?”

“To miss the mark.”

She laughed. “Well, hell, we’re all—” She covered her mouth with her hand, then wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. “I mean . . . They sure got that right.” She twirled again and then walked in between the pews, staring at my world. “So, you’re a sinner, huh?”

I stared at her but said nothing.

“Can’t imagine what that makes me.” She walked around me in a circle, sizing me up. “You can’t be that bad.” She gestured toward the walls. “God keeps you here.”

She eyed the old, worn confessional. “When they gonna get a new priest?”

“Don’t know.”

“So . . . what you’re saying is that there won’t be a priest here anytime tonight? Say in the next twenty minutes?”

A nod. “Yes.”

“So he isn’t coming?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. No priest tonight.”

She let out a deep breath. “So I’m stuck with—” She waved a disapproving hand across the whole of me. “You.”

Whatever was in her blood had made its way to her head. She was swimming. Ghostly pale. Sweat beaded on her face. She closed her eyes, swayed, began humming quietly, and raised her arms. An act of which I was not certain she was conscious. For nearly a minute, she stood in the chapel, arms raised, swaying, humming a song buried somewhere deep in her memory. I have this thing that happens in my rib cage when I’m around kids who are a long way from home—and getting farther. I’ve had it for years. While she stood there, I felt the knife enter between my ribs.

When she opened her eyes again, the sweat had trickled down her temple. She lowered her arms. “Whoa . . . This place is legit.” She caught herself on a pew, only to look at me a long time. After a minute, her head tilted sideways like a puppy, and then a sour look shaded her face. Her hand touched her stomach and her eyes began blinking excessively.

“Uh-oh.” Her cheeks filled with air and she convulsed slightly. The beginnings of a dry heave. Frantically looking for ground that was not sacred, she exited the pews and ran into the center aisle, swaying, only to pause midway. “I think I’m about to pu—” She tried to step toward the door, but the floor was uneven and her steps uncertain. With too many hurdles, she dropped to her knees, collected herself, and emptied her stomach. Then she did it again. The sounds of splattering and heaving echoed off the stone walls.

Wiping her mouth with her jacket, she sat back against a pew and closed her eyes. Pouring sweat. She spoke without opening her eyes. “I cannot believe I just—” She cut herself off and crawled down the center aisle. Stopping two pews away. She leaned against a pew and closed her eyes again. “If you’ve got a towel or a mop, I’ll clean that—”

“I got it.”

She opened one eye. “You’re really gonna clean up my puke?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

She leaned her head back, closed both eyes, and placed her palms flat on the floor. As if she were trying to stop the world from spinning. “If you weren’t a padre, I’d kiss you on the mouth.”

“I’m not the padre.”

“What, you wouldn’t kiss me?”

I said nothing but pointed at the trail of saliva dangling off her chin and pooling on the top of her breast. She wiped it on her other arm and said, “Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t kiss me either, but—” She closed her eyes again. “I’m a goooood kisser.” Opening her eyes, she studied me a minute. “You ever kissed a girl, Father?”