On the northernmost edge of the south side stood a Pelican Burger -- "Proudly serving the city's biggest burger since 1978" -- and its sign loomed over 56th street so that the head of a massive pelican cast a deep shadow, westward during early morning hours, then to the east as the day waned. The bird's plastic head could be seen as far away as 52nd, and the running joke of those who lived nearby was if you saw the feathered head even that far off, you were caught -- or just as well you were -- by the large beak of the pelican: your next meal awaited you, no matter the hour.
Dr. Mary Glen-Shaw's mind clenched like a fist as she stood under the creaking Pelican Burger sign. From where she stood she could hear the commotion of customers inside, and she saw her son, Matthew, standing along the wall. The muscles in her neck tightened; she gritted her teeth. Deep in the recesses of her thoughts she remembered telling him he could be anything he wanted to be. This corrosive memory ate away at her while she looked at her adult son. He wore a Pelican Berger uniform, complete with a tri-colored visor. She took a quick breath and tried to enter the restaurant, but couldn't. Something within her mind crawled away from her boy, and she needed to escape -- more than anything she needed to escape -- not only the sight of her child, but she needed to be free, finally and forever, from this side of town.
The sidewalk under her feet was hot even though it wasn't quite noon. She began to sweat and decided to walk around the block. To breathe. To find clean air...
The French fries at Pelican Burger were oily enough to glow, and Matthew H. Glen-Shaw had his eye on one particularly crispy fry. He was an employee, yes, but when he put on his uniform in front of the mirror, he imagined how clean he could make his floors, how well he could wax his tables, how clear he could keep his windows. Well past his shift, sometimes off the clock, he would scrub down his allotted area, replete with greasy fingerprints on the walls or tables or glass, and then walk home, exhausted, with the shining image of his work before him.
Now he stood along the wall. He could only watch the blond-headed little girl. She had dropped the fry when she arrived with her Chick-Chick-Meal, and now, as she danced in the booth, it lay there gathering dust. But he could only watch, for he'd been instructed not to clean while the customers ate -- a problem for management at first, an awkward problem, but now Matthew understood the customers were to be left alone.
The mother of the little girl sat and talked with a friend on her phone, only occasionally glancing at her daughter. A couple times she waved her hand and pointed at the food; once she even said the words, "You need to eat," to the dancing child, but the girl ignored her.
It wasn't long, however, until she stopped moving and sat down. She had seen Matthew. At first she thought he was looking at her, and that made her nervous. She scooted closer to her mother as she looked him up and down. He seemed to her a massive statue, and she was reminded of her mud puddle in the backyard. Had he covered himself in mud like she'd done the other day? Now she was no longer afraid, but curious. He still hadn't moved. Soon she realized that he looked not at her but under her -- she carefully traced the line between his eyes and where they led.
Her mother laughed at something trite while the child slid off her seat and bent over: She saw the French fry. It lay alone under the seat she'd been jumping on a moment before. It was the shape of a slender miniature wand. She glanced back at Matthew with it in her hand. His eyes widened, but he forced himself to stay put. Somehow, the girl understood, and she played like she would eat it to see what he would do. Yes, it was as she thought -- there was control to be exercised with the French fry. Matthew shifted his weight in his growing panic: Back and forth he went as the small girl locked eyes with him and moved the fry toward her mouth and then away, toward her mouth -- now with her tongue out -- then away. A squeal of delight escaped her when she realized the potential of her power over Matthew.
She stood up. She walked dangerously close to him, where she thought she could still get away but near enough to see his pupils as she whispered, "I'm going to eat it."
"No. Don't." Matthew barely let the words escape, but she heard him. It had been hours since he'd mopped under that table, two days since he'd disinfected any of the floors. "No," he said again, this time louder. Sweat ran down the sides of his face. He reached out a hand but quickly pulled back. He closed his eyes and repeated to himself, "Leave the customers alone. Leave the customers alone."
"H-ey," she was closer, raising her hand to her mouth, saying in singsong, "I'm...going...to -- "
But she didn't get the fry to her lips, for Matthew had opened his eyes and the horror in front of him conquered his restraint. "No!" he yelled and grabbed at the fry. The screams of the girl made him hold on, not only to the fry, but to her hand, and both were now squished between his palm and large fingers. She screamed more, now both in fear and pain, and her face twisted. Matthew saw her as though she were at the end of a long tunnel, suffering a fate he could not control, and he cried out with her.
The girl's mother looked over in time to see her daughter caught up by the largest Pelican Burger employee she'd ever seen. Her daughter hung by her arm several inches off the floor, and she had suddenly stopped moving and only hollered and blubbered.
"Sarah!" The woman's phone clattered to the floor, and she leaped from her seat.
A struggle ensued, in which Matthew's confusion only grew, and he let the girl and the fry go, placing her down. The mother now yelled in his face, but the words were bent somehow in his mind and he didn't hear anything. He drew back. His manager arrived and pulled him away, into the kitchen, then his office, and Matthew looked for the girl as long as he could. Through the office window, and just as his manager began to speak through gritted teeth, he saw both mother and daughter heading to the restroom.
"-- and what in the world are you crying about?"
Matthew's attention snapped to the little man behind the desk, his angry boss. "She's crying."
"Really? If you were that girl and a big black man just grabbed you like that -- what have I said to you, Matthew? Huh? Hey, look at me! You're fired!"
And that was that. Matthew removed his visor, and, without a word, set it down carefully with the hand that still had crushed French fry smeared all over it.
Dr. Mary Glen-Shaw's mind clenched like a fist as she stood under the creaking Pelican Burger sign. From where she stood she could hear the commotion of customers inside, and she saw her son, Matthew, standing along the wall. The muscles in her neck tightened; she gritted her teeth. Deep in the recesses of her thoughts she remembered telling him he could be anything he wanted to be. This corrosive memory ate away at her while she looked at her adult son. He wore a Pelican Berger uniform, complete with a tri-colored visor. She took a quick breath and tried to enter the restaurant, but couldn't. Something within her mind crawled away from her boy, and she needed to escape -- more than anything she needed to escape -- not only the sight of her child, but she needed to be free, finally and forever, from this side of town.
The sidewalk under her feet was hot even though it wasn't quite noon. She began to sweat and decided to walk around the block. To breathe. To find clean air...
***
The French fries at Pelican Burger were oily enough to glow, and Matthew H. Glen-Shaw had his eye on one particularly crispy fry. He was an employee, yes, but when he put on his uniform in front of the mirror, he imagined how clean he could make his floors, how well he could wax his tables, how clear he could keep his windows. Well past his shift, sometimes off the clock, he would scrub down his allotted area, replete with greasy fingerprints on the walls or tables or glass, and then walk home, exhausted, with the shining image of his work before him.
Now he stood along the wall. He could only watch the blond-headed little girl. She had dropped the fry when she arrived with her Chick-Chick-Meal, and now, as she danced in the booth, it lay there gathering dust. But he could only watch, for he'd been instructed not to clean while the customers ate -- a problem for management at first, an awkward problem, but now Matthew understood the customers were to be left alone.
The mother of the little girl sat and talked with a friend on her phone, only occasionally glancing at her daughter. A couple times she waved her hand and pointed at the food; once she even said the words, "You need to eat," to the dancing child, but the girl ignored her.
It wasn't long, however, until she stopped moving and sat down. She had seen Matthew. At first she thought he was looking at her, and that made her nervous. She scooted closer to her mother as she looked him up and down. He seemed to her a massive statue, and she was reminded of her mud puddle in the backyard. Had he covered himself in mud like she'd done the other day? Now she was no longer afraid, but curious. He still hadn't moved. Soon she realized that he looked not at her but under her -- she carefully traced the line between his eyes and where they led.
Her mother laughed at something trite while the child slid off her seat and bent over: She saw the French fry. It lay alone under the seat she'd been jumping on a moment before. It was the shape of a slender miniature wand. She glanced back at Matthew with it in her hand. His eyes widened, but he forced himself to stay put. Somehow, the girl understood, and she played like she would eat it to see what he would do. Yes, it was as she thought -- there was control to be exercised with the French fry. Matthew shifted his weight in his growing panic: Back and forth he went as the small girl locked eyes with him and moved the fry toward her mouth and then away, toward her mouth -- now with her tongue out -- then away. A squeal of delight escaped her when she realized the potential of her power over Matthew.
She stood up. She walked dangerously close to him, where she thought she could still get away but near enough to see his pupils as she whispered, "I'm going to eat it."
"No. Don't." Matthew barely let the words escape, but she heard him. It had been hours since he'd mopped under that table, two days since he'd disinfected any of the floors. "No," he said again, this time louder. Sweat ran down the sides of his face. He reached out a hand but quickly pulled back. He closed his eyes and repeated to himself, "Leave the customers alone. Leave the customers alone."
"H-ey," she was closer, raising her hand to her mouth, saying in singsong, "I'm...going...to -- "
But she didn't get the fry to her lips, for Matthew had opened his eyes and the horror in front of him conquered his restraint. "No!" he yelled and grabbed at the fry. The screams of the girl made him hold on, not only to the fry, but to her hand, and both were now squished between his palm and large fingers. She screamed more, now both in fear and pain, and her face twisted. Matthew saw her as though she were at the end of a long tunnel, suffering a fate he could not control, and he cried out with her.
The girl's mother looked over in time to see her daughter caught up by the largest Pelican Burger employee she'd ever seen. Her daughter hung by her arm several inches off the floor, and she had suddenly stopped moving and only hollered and blubbered.
"Sarah!" The woman's phone clattered to the floor, and she leaped from her seat.
A struggle ensued, in which Matthew's confusion only grew, and he let the girl and the fry go, placing her down. The mother now yelled in his face, but the words were bent somehow in his mind and he didn't hear anything. He drew back. His manager arrived and pulled him away, into the kitchen, then his office, and Matthew looked for the girl as long as he could. Through the office window, and just as his manager began to speak through gritted teeth, he saw both mother and daughter heading to the restroom.
"-- and what in the world are you crying about?"
Matthew's attention snapped to the little man behind the desk, his angry boss. "She's crying."
"Really? If you were that girl and a big black man just grabbed you like that -- what have I said to you, Matthew? Huh? Hey, look at me! You're fired!"
And that was that. Matthew removed his visor, and, without a word, set it down carefully with the hand that still had crushed French fry smeared all over it.
***
Dr. Mary Glen-Shaw did not find clean air. No, in fact, she found musty air filled with the smell of stale incense. The parish church was the last place she intended to go, but as she stomped around the block, and then the next one, she saw it and wanted to release some of her bitter regret. More: She needed to stir up her innate ability to ridicule. She'd had enough of muttering to herself about all the injustices she'd endured, not least of all Matthew and his insufferable bird-hat, and now needed someone to explode upon. Just before entering the church, she saw the cross carved into the great wooden doors; she would have to touch those doors, and in so doing, touch and open the cross -- for it spanned both sides, and its middle split when parishioners entered or exited. She scoffed and pushed through.
She imagined she'd find a futsy man of the cloth at her elbow at once, but the doors closed and the seconds ticked by while she waited in the halflight that edged in slantwise from highset windows. When no one came, she huffed and walked down a side aisle. Her loud steps echoed back to her, which at first checked her rage, but then doubled it when she felt its ebb. She lifted her head over the sliver of shame her footsteps had created and openly sneered at the candles flickering nearby. It wasn't long, however, that her aggression spent itself and had to be kept up deliberately with her trembling mind. The solitude she found produced a kind of fear she thought she'd conquered long ago.
It was with great relief, then, that she found the carvings in the stone wall. Very small, but clear, a series of heraldic signs done just below a stained glass window led her to snicker and then laugh outright. She was free once more to let her ridicule run free -- and there was one sign in particular that at first made her face burn with anger; quickly she covered her pain with laughter.
"Child?"
"What!" The voice behind her, although calm and unimposing, made her skin crawl and her scalp jump. "Why'd you sneak up on me?" She spun on her heels and fired her question at the short man standing too close.
"Forgive me." He raised his right hand. "I tried to alert you with my approach, but you were, well -- " he glanced at the signs in the wall -- "occupied." When he saw she fought back a burst of embarrassment, he added, "Were you seeking solitude or counsel?"
"Ha!" More relief flooded over Mary at not only the sight of the little man -- she'd now had a moment to take in his height and build: The top of his balding head did not rise over her shoulder and he looked like she could poke him over with her finger, he was so thin -- but also at the thought of him giving her counsel.
"Neither," she said. "No," she continued, pointing at one of the carvings, "I was laughing at this one. Didn't know the church endorsed fast food." The force with which she said the last two words inflamed her sense of domination and fed her need for mockery.
"Ah. The pelican. Ironic, I suppose." He adjusted his large glasses that stretched off the side of his face and licked his dry lips before saying, "I do visit for a burger here and there, great service -- but this sign and the one out there," he waved his arm toward the street, "are used for very different purposes."
Irritation replaced Mary's feeling of power. She would not be lectured by this. Yet, no words came to her usually quick tongue. She searched for something else to say about the birds, found nothing, and then blurted an insult. "Didn't know a brother could be tricked into becoming a brother." A smile crept over her face, but was wiped away with his simple answer.
"Uh-huh." The little idiot was cleaning his glasses.
Mary didn't know what to say next. "Well? 'Uh-huh' what?" He baffled her with his response. In reality, he hadn't heard her. He had slipped into deep thought about the mother pelican and what the church had done with the myth of her self-sacrifice.
"Beg your pardon," he looked at Mary, refocusing his watery eyes behind thick lenses. "I got lost there a moment." He shifted his feet and sighed. "I suppose it's a product of constant practice in reflection. Contemplation. Not so much in engaging conversation, I'm afraid." He folded his hands in front of him and said, "What were you saying?"
Again Mary was speechless, and her mouth hung open for a second too long. His blank face, which was his attempt to give her his full attention, brought her back to herself, for she found him, once more, thoroughly stupid. "Reflection?" Her index finger pointed at the pelican in the wall. "On that?" She had reclaimed her position.
"Yes," he answered. And then was silent, allowing the quiet to ring in Mary's ears. It finally dawned on her that he didn't intend to explain.
"Well? Reflect on what?" Why was she asking such questions? This thought floated over her like a dense mist and began to taunt her -- of course she didn't care a mite for his answer, and obviously her insults were over his head, but mostly she couldn't stand the thought that, in the end, they were talking about something he cared for and not her -- not her. The cloud only grew as she watched him answer.
"The metaphor of the pelican. How it, in a legend very old, will injure and starve itself to save its young." He stooped and gestured toward a small detail in the carving. "See here? She's wounding herself. Feeding her young with her body." Then he straightened himself and looked at her as though that's all the explanation that was needed.
"And?" Just behind her eyes Mary felt the pressure of the cloud growing, its taunt renewed and thickening, but it would not envelope her, it would not tease her, it would feel her wrath -- it...
"And this is what Christ does for us, uh -- " and his eyes pierced her.
"Mary."
"-- Mary." He said her name too slowly and nodded his head. "Yes. Mary." He turned away and cleared his throat. "He has been wounded -- indeed, he has wounded himself for us." He looked back to her, this time his eyes were like flaming barbs. They would destroy her. "Hasn't he?"
Then, in a last effort to escape the darkness that gathered inside, she gave full vent to her scorn and forced herself to laugh. The sound filled the sanctuary, but only for a moment, for when she saw the priest's face had not changed -- indeed, he gave his attention to the pelican once more -- she realized she couldn't touch him. This was too great a horror.
"What do you need to believe -- a sign?" The question was asked so softly that Mary heard it for what it was: an invitation.
Her lip twitched. "What?" She said the word in clear astonishment at both his question and her own reaction to it.
"Do you need a sign to believe?"
But Mary had no further answer. The question, asked the second time, had curiously sounded to her shaken mind as though it came from the massive cloud that now threatened to fill her. She ran. Down the aisle, through the doors, down the steps.
The priest called after her, "Mary!" She turned at the sound of her name. He was pushing through the doors, reaching out, and she saw it -- the cross. It spanned the entirety of both sides of the entrance. Flanking him, the cross continued to open until he stopped and watched her try to escape. It was open to her still.
Mary ran; she ran with the fear of her childhood bubbling up -- "No!" With each block she rounded, she checked to see if the darkness pursued, and each time it was darker, closer, heavier. As a girl in Sunday School, she'd seen in her imagination -- and later in nightmares -- the felt storyboard come to life. Her ancient teacher had used the soft cutouts to illustrate the parable of poor Lazarus sitting at the gate. The rich man, who had ignored Lazarus, died and burned in hell. This rich man, the flames, the pleading for relief, it all came alive, rose up, and moved of its own accord; she could feel the heat as the figures acted out the familiar story. And now, running down 52nd, she felt the heat on her neck, and she was a girl once more, no longer clutching at control, but fleeing and crying out as she had so many years ago.
She fell and covered her head with her arms.
Matthew backed into the shelter of an awning as the storm started. A great wind had swept through the city, and now the rain came down in gusts. He watched his shoes and the bottoms of his pants as they were soaked and stuck to his ankles. Before the storm, he'd stood just across the street from Pelican Burger, so close to traffic that he was hit in the hand by a passing car; the side window slapped him, and his mouth opened in silent pain as he stumbled back. Now, his hand hung at his leg, swollen and throbbing. The surprise of being struck by the car had interrupted his despair. His shift was supposed to end at 7:30, still six hours away. So he'd stared at his workspace, which he could see through the large windows, unable to think of anything else except his work and the little girl.
The wet crawled up to his knees. He shivered. Through the slanting rain, he tried to see who might clean his tables. He mumbled the names of his coworkers. Then he saw the little girl's face. It flashed at him, that look of anguish and shock, and he cried out and hid from it. But there was no hiding. It kept at him until he heard her whisper, "You were bad."
"No!" Matthew rushed into the rain, his scrunched up body braced for the pelting that was to come. He crossed the street as the wind howled and shook the pelican sign; he heard it moan and crack. Despite the storm, sparks shot in all directions, and the bird's beak seemed to bend down to snatch Matthew. He pulled back and waited for it to fall, but it held. Then he heard her: the girl's mother.
"Hey, you get out of here!" Mother and daughter were finally leaving Pelican Burger after an afternoon of threats given and promises received. She turned and shouted, "Do you see this? You said he'd be long gone!" In her renewed anger, she lost hold of the small girl, who was newly disoriented by the sight of Matthew standing in the rain. She moved away from him, shaking her head.
"Don't go there!" Matthew heard the sign again -- it seemed to squawk as it fell; this time the wind ripped it from its supports.
The girl screamed. Matthew rushed toward her.
Dr. Mary Glen-Shaw woke with the sun in her face. The storm had passed. Wet and confused with dreams, she stood and began to walk. She had to steady herself after a minute and leaned against the corner of a brick building. The images that trailed through her mind made her sniff, and she remembered her conversation in the church -- she sniffed again and lifted her head. "It was a storm, Mary," she said to herself. And then she laughed at the thought of Jesus riding in the mouth of a pelican, his hands reaching out, his eyes aflame. She allowed herself to laugh though people began to stare. Her step steadied as she continued to chuckle, and without realizing it, she walked toward Pelican Burger.
In the midst of her small fit, she didn't notice that the sign no longer watched over 56th. In fact, she reveled so deeply in her new private ridicule that the crowd she approached did not raise any sort of suspicion. It wasn't until she was quite close to the scene that she awoke to reality; it was the wail, the cry of an ambulance, that did it.
Just inside the restaurant, Mary noticed next, a mother and child stood by the window. A small blond girl cried against her mother. Their eyes met, this swaying mother and Mary's, but quickly Mary sniffed and turned toward someone at the edge of the commotion. "What's all this?" She asked.
"The sign fell because of the wind, and -- " but Mary had stopped listening.
She looked. And then Mary pushed through the people to see. She didn't care that the sign was destroyed, but when she heard those words a sudden break in the crowd revealed Matthew's feet; no one had feet that large, and she knew his shoes, too. "Matthew!" She yelled. Much of his body lay under the pelican, but as Mary made her way around the sign, she saw his arms spread out on either side. He was on his back so that his face and the bird's beak touched, and his eyes stared, motionless, toward heaven.
"No, no," Mary said, and she placed herself down beside her dead son. A calm settled upon her. She took Matthew's head in her lap, and no one tried to stop her.
A stranger whispered, "He saved that little girl." And Mary heard it.
"Oh, Matthew," she said, and wept over him. And she wept that the blood upon her breast was not her own, but his -- this thought came to her as she met the large eye of the pelican. Those who still watched pulled back as Mary began to scream. "Get away -- get away from me!" In a flash hysteria leapt upon and tore at her. "I see His bloody hand. His bloody hand in its mouth!" And she covered Matthew with her body; the horrible sound of her screams traveled up and down 56th and to the blocks beyond -- even as far as 52nd, where people there had just noticed something strange and new about the skyline.
She imagined she'd find a futsy man of the cloth at her elbow at once, but the doors closed and the seconds ticked by while she waited in the halflight that edged in slantwise from highset windows. When no one came, she huffed and walked down a side aisle. Her loud steps echoed back to her, which at first checked her rage, but then doubled it when she felt its ebb. She lifted her head over the sliver of shame her footsteps had created and openly sneered at the candles flickering nearby. It wasn't long, however, that her aggression spent itself and had to be kept up deliberately with her trembling mind. The solitude she found produced a kind of fear she thought she'd conquered long ago.
It was with great relief, then, that she found the carvings in the stone wall. Very small, but clear, a series of heraldic signs done just below a stained glass window led her to snicker and then laugh outright. She was free once more to let her ridicule run free -- and there was one sign in particular that at first made her face burn with anger; quickly she covered her pain with laughter.
"Child?"
"What!" The voice behind her, although calm and unimposing, made her skin crawl and her scalp jump. "Why'd you sneak up on me?" She spun on her heels and fired her question at the short man standing too close.
"Forgive me." He raised his right hand. "I tried to alert you with my approach, but you were, well -- " he glanced at the signs in the wall -- "occupied." When he saw she fought back a burst of embarrassment, he added, "Were you seeking solitude or counsel?"
"Ha!" More relief flooded over Mary at not only the sight of the little man -- she'd now had a moment to take in his height and build: The top of his balding head did not rise over her shoulder and he looked like she could poke him over with her finger, he was so thin -- but also at the thought of him giving her counsel.
"Neither," she said. "No," she continued, pointing at one of the carvings, "I was laughing at this one. Didn't know the church endorsed fast food." The force with which she said the last two words inflamed her sense of domination and fed her need for mockery.
"Ah. The pelican. Ironic, I suppose." He adjusted his large glasses that stretched off the side of his face and licked his dry lips before saying, "I do visit for a burger here and there, great service -- but this sign and the one out there," he waved his arm toward the street, "are used for very different purposes."
Irritation replaced Mary's feeling of power. She would not be lectured by this. Yet, no words came to her usually quick tongue. She searched for something else to say about the birds, found nothing, and then blurted an insult. "Didn't know a brother could be tricked into becoming a brother." A smile crept over her face, but was wiped away with his simple answer.
"Uh-huh." The little idiot was cleaning his glasses.
Mary didn't know what to say next. "Well? 'Uh-huh' what?" He baffled her with his response. In reality, he hadn't heard her. He had slipped into deep thought about the mother pelican and what the church had done with the myth of her self-sacrifice.
"Beg your pardon," he looked at Mary, refocusing his watery eyes behind thick lenses. "I got lost there a moment." He shifted his feet and sighed. "I suppose it's a product of constant practice in reflection. Contemplation. Not so much in engaging conversation, I'm afraid." He folded his hands in front of him and said, "What were you saying?"
Again Mary was speechless, and her mouth hung open for a second too long. His blank face, which was his attempt to give her his full attention, brought her back to herself, for she found him, once more, thoroughly stupid. "Reflection?" Her index finger pointed at the pelican in the wall. "On that?" She had reclaimed her position.
"Yes," he answered. And then was silent, allowing the quiet to ring in Mary's ears. It finally dawned on her that he didn't intend to explain.
"Well? Reflect on what?" Why was she asking such questions? This thought floated over her like a dense mist and began to taunt her -- of course she didn't care a mite for his answer, and obviously her insults were over his head, but mostly she couldn't stand the thought that, in the end, they were talking about something he cared for and not her -- not her. The cloud only grew as she watched him answer.
"The metaphor of the pelican. How it, in a legend very old, will injure and starve itself to save its young." He stooped and gestured toward a small detail in the carving. "See here? She's wounding herself. Feeding her young with her body." Then he straightened himself and looked at her as though that's all the explanation that was needed.
"And?" Just behind her eyes Mary felt the pressure of the cloud growing, its taunt renewed and thickening, but it would not envelope her, it would not tease her, it would feel her wrath -- it...
"And this is what Christ does for us, uh -- " and his eyes pierced her.
"Mary."
"-- Mary." He said her name too slowly and nodded his head. "Yes. Mary." He turned away and cleared his throat. "He has been wounded -- indeed, he has wounded himself for us." He looked back to her, this time his eyes were like flaming barbs. They would destroy her. "Hasn't he?"
Then, in a last effort to escape the darkness that gathered inside, she gave full vent to her scorn and forced herself to laugh. The sound filled the sanctuary, but only for a moment, for when she saw the priest's face had not changed -- indeed, he gave his attention to the pelican once more -- she realized she couldn't touch him. This was too great a horror.
"What do you need to believe -- a sign?" The question was asked so softly that Mary heard it for what it was: an invitation.
Her lip twitched. "What?" She said the word in clear astonishment at both his question and her own reaction to it.
"Do you need a sign to believe?"
But Mary had no further answer. The question, asked the second time, had curiously sounded to her shaken mind as though it came from the massive cloud that now threatened to fill her. She ran. Down the aisle, through the doors, down the steps.
The priest called after her, "Mary!" She turned at the sound of her name. He was pushing through the doors, reaching out, and she saw it -- the cross. It spanned the entirety of both sides of the entrance. Flanking him, the cross continued to open until he stopped and watched her try to escape. It was open to her still.
Mary ran; she ran with the fear of her childhood bubbling up -- "No!" With each block she rounded, she checked to see if the darkness pursued, and each time it was darker, closer, heavier. As a girl in Sunday School, she'd seen in her imagination -- and later in nightmares -- the felt storyboard come to life. Her ancient teacher had used the soft cutouts to illustrate the parable of poor Lazarus sitting at the gate. The rich man, who had ignored Lazarus, died and burned in hell. This rich man, the flames, the pleading for relief, it all came alive, rose up, and moved of its own accord; she could feel the heat as the figures acted out the familiar story. And now, running down 52nd, she felt the heat on her neck, and she was a girl once more, no longer clutching at control, but fleeing and crying out as she had so many years ago.
She fell and covered her head with her arms.
***
Matthew backed into the shelter of an awning as the storm started. A great wind had swept through the city, and now the rain came down in gusts. He watched his shoes and the bottoms of his pants as they were soaked and stuck to his ankles. Before the storm, he'd stood just across the street from Pelican Burger, so close to traffic that he was hit in the hand by a passing car; the side window slapped him, and his mouth opened in silent pain as he stumbled back. Now, his hand hung at his leg, swollen and throbbing. The surprise of being struck by the car had interrupted his despair. His shift was supposed to end at 7:30, still six hours away. So he'd stared at his workspace, which he could see through the large windows, unable to think of anything else except his work and the little girl.
The wet crawled up to his knees. He shivered. Through the slanting rain, he tried to see who might clean his tables. He mumbled the names of his coworkers. Then he saw the little girl's face. It flashed at him, that look of anguish and shock, and he cried out and hid from it. But there was no hiding. It kept at him until he heard her whisper, "You were bad."
"No!" Matthew rushed into the rain, his scrunched up body braced for the pelting that was to come. He crossed the street as the wind howled and shook the pelican sign; he heard it moan and crack. Despite the storm, sparks shot in all directions, and the bird's beak seemed to bend down to snatch Matthew. He pulled back and waited for it to fall, but it held. Then he heard her: the girl's mother.
"Hey, you get out of here!" Mother and daughter were finally leaving Pelican Burger after an afternoon of threats given and promises received. She turned and shouted, "Do you see this? You said he'd be long gone!" In her renewed anger, she lost hold of the small girl, who was newly disoriented by the sight of Matthew standing in the rain. She moved away from him, shaking her head.
"Don't go there!" Matthew heard the sign again -- it seemed to squawk as it fell; this time the wind ripped it from its supports.
The girl screamed. Matthew rushed toward her.
***
In the midst of her small fit, she didn't notice that the sign no longer watched over 56th. In fact, she reveled so deeply in her new private ridicule that the crowd she approached did not raise any sort of suspicion. It wasn't until she was quite close to the scene that she awoke to reality; it was the wail, the cry of an ambulance, that did it.
Just inside the restaurant, Mary noticed next, a mother and child stood by the window. A small blond girl cried against her mother. Their eyes met, this swaying mother and Mary's, but quickly Mary sniffed and turned toward someone at the edge of the commotion. "What's all this?" She asked.
"The sign fell because of the wind, and -- " but Mary had stopped listening.
She looked. And then Mary pushed through the people to see. She didn't care that the sign was destroyed, but when she heard those words a sudden break in the crowd revealed Matthew's feet; no one had feet that large, and she knew his shoes, too. "Matthew!" She yelled. Much of his body lay under the pelican, but as Mary made her way around the sign, she saw his arms spread out on either side. He was on his back so that his face and the bird's beak touched, and his eyes stared, motionless, toward heaven.
"No, no," Mary said, and she placed herself down beside her dead son. A calm settled upon her. She took Matthew's head in her lap, and no one tried to stop her.
A stranger whispered, "He saved that little girl." And Mary heard it.
"Oh, Matthew," she said, and wept over him. And she wept that the blood upon her breast was not her own, but his -- this thought came to her as she met the large eye of the pelican. Those who still watched pulled back as Mary began to scream. "Get away -- get away from me!" In a flash hysteria leapt upon and tore at her. "I see His bloody hand. His bloody hand in its mouth!" And she covered Matthew with her body; the horrible sound of her screams traveled up and down 56th and to the blocks beyond -- even as far as 52nd, where people there had just noticed something strange and new about the skyline.
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