Buddha Baby (22 page)

They snaked out to the schoolyard and lined up against the stucco wall of the convent. Quieting down, they waited for Sister Constance to speak.

The nun smiled proudly and as she took a deep breath, the swelling air in her lungs made the crucifix on her chest heave up and down.

The kids all beamed with excitement, and some even clapped. What would their surprise be?

"And now, finally," Sister Constance said. "You have all been such grand children that today you are going to a very sacred place. We are all going inside the convent. Yes, you have been so good that today you will be allowed to spend recess praying in our private chapel."

They were all paralyzed into stunned silence.
They would be going where? Into the belly of the beast
?

Sister Constance turned her key in the lock and swung open the door with its heavy, grid-lined safety glass. They entered a dark hallway and passed high-ceilinged rooms filled with mysterious storage boxes. The air smelled stale. As they hugged the walls and each other, the kids' knees knocked as they walked by an expansive kitchen filled with antiquated appliances, most noticeable of which were the industrial-sized electric mixers. It seemed unlikely that the nuns spent weekends baking like Kee-bler elves, so the students were only able to assume that the confectionery equipment was used to cook naughty children into delectable meat pies.

Lindsey had been disturbed to think that somewhere nearby was where the nuns slept. She wondered if they wore their habits to bed. As she and her classmates descended three steep stairwells to the convent basement, some kids were so spooked Lindsey thought they might pee their pants. No one asked where the bathroom was because they were fairly certain that convents had no toilets since nuns didn't pee.

When they finally reached the chapel, they entered a cramped, low-ceilinged space with slender wooden pews and flesh-colored walls. They filed in and knelt down. The room's feng shui was such that all they could do was stare up and affix their gaze on the most enormous crucifix they had ever seen.

As if they weren't all trembling enough, even the biggest and bravest kids were near whimpering when they caught sight of the bloodiest, nakedest Jesus of all time. Streams of red, oozing plasma trickled down to His barely concealed privates. A teensy loincloth the size of a beverage napkin outlined every embarrassing detail of the Lord's weinerdog. Lindsey wondered how the groovy lad with the swarthy muttonchops had sunk so far.

Passing the convent now on her way to the rectory, she realized that the eighth-grade visit had probably been a last-ditch effort on the part of the school to impress upon the graduates the ultimate suffering of Jesus in order to instill long-lasting guilt and fear of pubic hair. Perhaps it was St. Maude's way of saying, "Be good! As you go off to high school and encounter the temptations of wine coolers and tingling genitals, remember the Messiah's bloody crotch!" The Lord never even Did It, and look what happened to Him.

Lindsev shuddered at the remembrance of her class's visit to the chapel. As she walked across the scorching hot asphalt of the empty schoolyard, she could see the rectory up ahead. Shading her eyes with her hand, she remembered how she and the other kids always speculated about what went on behind the walls of the priests' quarters.

Through the screen door they sometimes saw Monsignor Rathburn kicking back on his recliner enjoying a cocktail while watching
Family Feud
. A housemaid used to bring him snacks and fluffed a ruffled pillow beneath his black nylon socks. From the yard the students were able to see curtains decorated with rickrack, plush sofas, and a sparkly set of highball glasses resting on an endtable.

Monsignor Rathburn's life seemed pretty cushy and he acted nice enough to the kids in front of the nuns, but all the students knew in their hearts that he was an agent of evil. If his face was painted red and horns affixed to his head, he would have been the spitting image of Satan with his pointy eyebrows, piercing eyes, and demonic grin. Everyone had heard the parish rumors about him amassing a personal fortune by bilking elderly ladies out of cash they had stashed beneath their mattresses for safekeeping. Supposedly, Monsignor Rathburn guaranteed generous ladies half-court seats in heaven if they would sign checks over to the church in his name. No one had any proof of these accusations, but every Friday after mass, the kids all snickered at the women who responded favorably to Monsignor's handsy squeezes. Lindsey noticed the other ladies as well, the ones who clutched their handbags more firmly in his presence as if they, too, suspected he was not an instrument of peace, but a common purse snatcher hiding behind his starched collar.

As Lindsey made her way across the yard, a loud bell suddenly rang and kids immediately spilled out from the multiple school exits. Instantly the quiet, concrete expanse turned into a riotous swarm of running children. They laughed and yelled, and Lindsey quickly found herself dodging basketballs, jump ropes, hopscotch games, and clusters of scheming girls huddled in circles. As she cut a path toward the rectory she noticed that the hearselike black Cadillac that was always ominously parked out front was missing. She slowed as she neared the bungalow, not quite sure how she would address the monsignor about his affinity for pricey whiskey.

In the alley that separated the rectory from the church, Lindsey did a double-take as she spotted the little Chinese girl, the one who was recently yelled at by Sister Boniface. She was standing against a brick wall doing nothing, so Lindsey approached her.

"Hi," Lindsey said. "What are you doing here all by yourself?"

The little girl looked up. "Do you know how to play Chinese jump rope? No one will play with me."

She held out her hand and showed Lindsey a long chain of interconnected rubberbands that she had looped together and tied at the ends. Stepping on one end and pulling on it, she demonstrated its elasticity and smiled. Lindsey was happily surprised. She hadn't seen a Chinese jump rope since she herself was in grade school.

"Of course, I know how to play," Lindsey said, then added, "But I don't think I should. I'm, you know, an adult."

The girl jumped up and down and pleaded for Lindsey to join her in a game. Eventually she just ignored Lindsey's protests and proceeded to wind the stretchy rope across Lindsey's ankles. Then she hooked the other end to a couple of sprinkler heads on the rectory's landscaped border. She hopped around for a while and performed the expected maneuvers, stepping on different sections of the rubber rope, then twisting it around and hopping over and through it until one of her spindly legs became entangled.

"It's your turn now," the girl said, but as Lindsey tried to step out, the entwined rubberbands tangled and became snagged on the buckles of her shoes. Soon enough, Lindsey's legs were hopelessly caught in a mass of rubber loops and knots.

"Hey, let's tie you up!" the girl laughed and began to wind her Chinese jumprope around Lindsey until she was bound up to her knees.

"Quit it!" Lindsey said.

She couldn't move. By the time she got the girl to stop, there was no way they were able to unravel it.

"Uh-oh," the girl said.

Lindsey sighed. "We're going to need to cut it." She looked across the yard and realized it would be really far for her to hop all the way past two basketball games, the handball courts, the hopscotch area, and the tetherball courts just to get back to her office and retrieve a pair of scissors.

"I know!" the girl yelped, then darted toward the rectory door.

"Wait!" Lindsey protested.

Still running, the girl called behind, "It's okay, I saw him leave!" She pushed through the door and disappeared.

Standing there with her legs tightly wound with the Chinese jump rope, Lindsey looked around to see if anyone was witness to her predicament. All the kids were at the other end of the schoolyard and she didn't see anyone watching. Both feet together, she jumped up the steps of the rectory and followed the girl inside.

"Hello?" she called. "Is anyone here? Excuse us, but we were just hoping to borrow a pair of scissors."

There was no answer. Lindsey stood in the entryway and noticed the furniture had not changed in twenty years. She saw the same couch, and the familiar set of hi-ball glasses. There was a new television with a cable box, and for some reason, a portrait of Monsignor Rathburn with George Bush, Sr.

"Come here, come here!" Lindsey heard the little girl calling from somewhere beyond a small kitchenette.

She found her in the study, directly across from a bedroom.

"There's gotta be scissors in this drawer but I can't open it," the girl said. Lindsey jiggled it, but it was indeed locked.

"We have to get out of here," Lindsey said, her shins struggling against the rubber lasso that bound her legs. She tugged at the loops of elastic bands, but they had become even more tightly wound by all her jumping and wriggling.

Lindsey heard some noises by the front door, and sure enough, the screen door popped open. Just beyond the dinette set she saw Monsignor Rathburn enter. Horrified, she pulled herself back into the study and grabbed the girl as well. They inched out of sight and the girl opened a closet door and got in. Lindsey hopped over and, squishing the girl under a row of black pants, managed to smash herself against a garment bag. She pulled the door shut, leaving it open just a crack.

"I can't see nothing!" the girl said in a muffled whisper. Lindsey shushed her and held her hand.

They were stuck there. Lindsey couldn't very well explain that she just came in to chat about Bruno Magli, Johnny Walker, and scissors. Oh, and she also just happened to have a spare kindergartner with her. She could say the girl was her little sister. No, that would be stupid. It wouldn't even make any sense.

She peeked out. Monsignor Rathburn fixed a tuna sandwich and mixed himself what looked to be a White Russian. After ten minutes of holding the girl's hand, Lindsey's palm was beginning to get sweaty.

"We have to get out of here," Lindsey whispered. "But we have to wait for the right time. Just stay quiet."

There was a window in the study where Lindsey thought they might be able to climb down to the bushes. But just as she was about to push open the closet door and make a move toward the window, she heard the monsignor's footsteps in the hallway. She froze, and grabbed the girl's hand again. She squeezed it to tell her to stay still, and the girl complied.

Monsignor Rathburn went to the bedroom and took off his white collar. Lindsey had a clear view of him. He pulled down the blinds and slid open the door to a wardrobe. He reached deep inside, then his arm emerged holding what looked like a floppy, suede purse.

He sat down on a plush armchair and held the leather bag in his lap. He unzipped it and flipped his hand through, talking quietly to himself. Lindsey strained to hear him, and eventually made out his voice across the quiet hallway. He was counting.

"Six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred…"

Monsignor Rathburn was directly facing the doorway. There was no way he wouldn't see two Chinese people springing out of his den. Lindsey wondered what they would do. They couldn't stay there for much longer. To make matters worse, her legs were starting to cramp.

She peered out the closet door and examined the window that now seemed their only chance of escape. It had a crank handle and looked as if the glass opened outward. It would be an easy jump down to the landscaped area if only they could make it two steps out of the closet without being spotted.

She looked back at the monsignor. He was sitting in the chair with the suede bag still on his lap. She watched as he scooted down and fiddled with his trousers. She wondered if he had eaten too much tuna and needed to loosen his belt a notch. Maybe he would take a nap. Her plan was to make sure he was asleep before they made their break to safety.

"Just a few minutes more," she whispered to the girl. Hearing a faint rendition of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," she added, "Stop singing."

They waited in the closet. Monsignor Rathburn wasn't falling asleep. Not only that, but what
was
he doing? His eyes were closed but he was moving a little and making low moaning noises. Lindsey grimaced and turned away when she realized he was rubbing the bag of money against his crotch in an effort at self-stimulation.

Oh, God. This was something Lindsey did not want to see. Nor did she want the little girl to catch a glimpse of what was going on. No doubt they'd both be scarred for life.

As Monsignor Rathburn's moans became louder, Lindsey decided she had to take action. She inched herself out of the closet and pulled the little girl out from behind the rows of musty pants. Grabbing the girl by the shoulders, she quietly pushed her toward the window. They cranked it open, and as the noises from the opposite bedroom increased, the girl turned to look but Lindsey pulled her away and held her with her forearm. Unable to hoist a leg over the windowsill, she leaned them both backwards like they were scuba divers somersaulting off the edge of a rowboat. At the moment they hit the dirt and tumbled into some groundcover, up through the window Lindsey heard Monsignor Rathburn exclaim in convulsed rapture, "Sweet Jesus!"

Lindsey and the girl lay disheveled atop several bushes of night-blooming jasmine. After she caught her breath, Lindsey managed to say, "What's your name, anyway?"

"Jilan?"

The voice did not come from the little girl. Although the first syllable of the well-enunciated name was high and possibly childlike, the last part was uttered with a throaty suggestion of menace.

She recognized the voice. It was Ms. Abilene's.

Lindsey slumped back into the jasmine and had the sensation of shrinking. She felt as if she were back in seventh grade. Looking up at Ms. Abilene, she couldn't make out her features for the sun, but was suddenly reminded of the look on Nelson Fong's face as he awaited his Rio Grande ass-whupping. Lindsey couldn't help but think she was about to find out exactly what happened to Nelson. She braced herself for a generous, down-home helping of corporal punishment served with pleasure by the Texas she-devil.