From Sand and Ash(58)

He looked down into her face, wanting to comfort her, wanting to comfort himself, needing to save her, needing to save himself.

“Resistance.” He repeated the word like it was his own and dropped his forehead to hers, closing his eyes and willing himself to move away. “Resistance,” he said again. “I do understand,” he said softly. “I understand completely.”

His own resistance was shot, and he released Eva’s shoulders and pushed himself up from the pew.

“I don’t want you to walk in the dark. It’s after curfew, and it’s too far. Can you stay here tonight?” he asked Eva tiredly. He looked at her long enough to see her nod, then he walked away, but he didn’t leave the church. He approached the altar, lit a candle, and used his cane to sink down to his knees in front of the cross. He buried his face in his hands and for several long minutes he prayed. He didn’t know if Eva watched or if she’d retreated to the little basement room that she’d used once before, leaving him alone. All he knew was that his resistance was failing him, and he had no armor against her any longer.

He started with his face in his hands. It was the way he always prayed, the way he’d been taught to pray. It kept him from sight and distraction, cradling his face that way, as if he covered himself from everything but the words he spoke. But before long, he was overcome, and he found himself prostrate, the way he’d lain during his ordination, his arms extended in front of him toward the wooden cross that hung above the altar.

He was just a man. Young, crippled, scared. But he would give his life for Eva. And he would give his life for the people he was trying to save. That had to count for something, it had to. He’d broken a promise. He’d held Eva in his arms, and he’d knowingly, willingly broken his vow. He’d kissed her. Yes, he’d been vulnerable. Yes, he’d been scared. Yes, it was forgivable, even understandable. But there is a consequence for every broken promise, and he feared the consequence would be an innocent life. Not his life, but someone depending on him.

“Please don’t let my weakness be reason to withdraw from me. Please don’t let my love for Eva endanger her or remove her from thy grace,” he said without sound, his lips moving around the silent words.

That was what he feared most, that his own sin would cause a cessation of blessings, of divine intervention. And he could not risk it. There were too many people counting on him.

When he’d gone to see Monsignor Luciano before he was ordained, the monsignor had read him the account of David and Bathsheba in the Bible, and the name Bathsheba had not escaped him, essentially the same name as Eva’s. At the time, it had struck him how King David hadn’t averted his eyes as Bathsheba bathed. He hadn’t looked away from her beauty, shielded her from his gaze. He hadn’t stayed away, not after he’d discovered she was married. Not after he’d realized who she was married to—loyal Uriah, who had faithfully fought for his king and country. Not after he’d gotten her pregnant and created a mess. Not after he’d had Uriah put in death’s path. He’d persisted in his sins, making them worse every step of the way.

Was Angelo doing the same thing, persisting in his sins by being near Eva? Was he willfully looking at her beauty and not averting his eyes when he should? The problem was, he didn’t know how to stay away from Eva. He didn’t feel like it was a choice. She was not another man’s wife, another man’s responsibility. She was his responsibility. He’d made a vow to God, but he’d made a promise to Camillo. And Eva was his. She had been his from the moment they met.



“Create in me a pure heart, O God,

and renew a steadfast spirit within me.

Do not cast me from your presence

or take your Holy Spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation

and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.

Then I will teach transgressors your ways,

so that sinners will turn back to you.”



He recited David’s prayer like it was his own, and when he finally finished and rose to his knees, he raised his head, his eyes seeking the candle he’d lit and the cross above it. A candle and a cross, the only thing that separated him from being hopelessly lost.

But there were several candles now, and Eva sat nearby, her head bowed in her own prayer. He didn’t disturb her but watched as she prayed, her hands outstretched toward the candles she’d lit. When she raised her head and saw him watching her, she curled her fingers and stared down at her palms.

“What are you doing?” he asked softly.

“It’s Shabbat.”

He nodded. She was saying her prayers beneath a cross. If it didn’t bother her, it certainly didn’t bother him. She continued speaking, her eyes on her bent fingers.

“With our hands, we reach for things we shouldn’t have and we grasp what isn’t ours. The way I have always reached for you.” She raised her eyes then and looked at him steadily. The way I have always reached for you. Angelo’s pulse quickened immediately, but he didn’t look away. We reach for things we shouldn’t have and we grasp what isn’t ours.

Her eyes returned to her hands, and she traced one finger over the opposite palm as she spoke, as if she were anointing it the way the bishop had anointed Angelo’s hands at his ordination.

“With our fingers we touch the filth that is all around us. Our fingernails collect dirt, the lines in our palms become stained and soiled, yet when we raise our hands in prayer or supplication, we demonstrate that even that which is sullied by the world can commune with the spirit. That is why during Shabbat, when we hold our hands toward the candle, we curl our fingers away from the flame, allowing the light to be reflected in our fingernails. Even our fingernails, the part of us that is most unclean, can still reflect God’s light. At least, that’s how I understand it.” She smiled ruefully and let her hands drop to her lap, but her eyes stayed fixed on the candlelight.