Everyone but You (31 page)

He breathed in the cold until it hurt. A car drove slowly by. He resumed walking until he reached the church, where he stopped to look up at the image of the Virgin Mary, but she looked down, blankly, at him, and he couldn’t think of one single prayer to utter. He slipped past the gate and entered the cemetery, past the first and second rows of stones and the maple tree and the sitting bench. In the distance, the lights of the rectory turned off, one by one, and he crouched down and wiped the heavy snow from his mother’s headstone. He sat down in front of it, waiting for a sign; he didn’t know what the sign would be, exactly, but he was certain when it came he would recognize it. Still, even as he wished this, it occured to him that maybe God didn’t see anything, not his jiggling off or looking at
Playboy
s, not an accident or a first kiss. Maybe heaven didn’t care and
God and all the angels were blind; maybe heaven and God didn’t exist at all. Maybe his father was right, that Morty’s mother just died, and that was it.

He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them to keep warm. His lips were numb, and his hands tingled with cold. Eventually, he heard a cough in the distance and glanced around to see Father Bastian walking toward him. The priest’s gait was unmistakable, the careful way he placed his feet, as if he was worried he’d fall. When he neared, Morty said, “Hello, Father.”

“Morty!” Father Bastian cried. He pressed his hand to his chest. In the moonlight his face appeared ghostly. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack, boy?”

“No,” Morty said. “I was just sitting here.”

Father Bastian exhaled and waited a moment, still feeling his chest. Then he said, “Well, if it hasn’t happened yet, I guess I’m good for another day.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and looked around. “Quiet night,” he said. “You come here often?”

Morty shrugged.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Father Bastian said. “I come here a lot, too. It’s peaceful among the faithfully departed, and a good place to think.”

“I guess,” Morty replied.

Father Bastian regarded Morty in a sad way. “Something on your mind, Morty?”

“Never,” Morty said. He pulled his legs closer, blew into his hands to warm them.

“I see.” Father Bastian nodded at the gravestone. “Now, your mother was one of the faithful. She had a lot of faith. In people. In the world. The whole kit and caboodle, really.”

“She did.”

“The world lost a good soul when your mother passed.”

“It did.”

“Sometimes things just happen, you know, like accidents, and it’s no one’s fault. You do know that, don’t you?”

“I guess.” He rubbed his hands together again and shoved them in his pockets.

Father Bastian sighed. “Okay,” he said. “If this is the way the conversation is going to go, then I need a smoke.” He removed a pack of cigarettes from his inside coat pocket and then took out a piece of tin foil, which he formed into a cup. “Instant ashtray,” he explained. “I don’t like to leave a mess.”

Morty looked around at the other headstones and he nodded. “Makes sense.”

The priest rocked back and forth gently. “It’s a deplorable habit, really, and I don’t recommend smoking at all. I’d also ask that you don’t mention it to the nuns at Our Lady of Misery. If they found out they’d pitch a collective fit. They really would.”

“They do have tempers,” Morty agreed.

“You don’t know the half of it. I’ll tell you, those nuns don’t leave a man at peace. They want you to shovel their sidewalks in winter, and they want you to rake leaves in fall and clean the church van in summer and plant their gardens in spring. I’m sixty-five, Morty. Do I look like I can do all that anymore? When I die, and if the nuns from Our Lady are there—and they surely will be, with possibly the exception of Sister Agatha—I’m going to ask for a condo outside of heaven, because the nuns will probably see fit to find all sorts of jobs for me, even there. I got into this business to be a servant to
God
, not to clean out gutters.”

“I didn’t know,” Morty said. He didn’t want to be rude, but his teeth were chattering and he still hadn’t received the sign he
was looking for. He held his arms tighter and looked up at the old priest, wishing Father Bastian would leave, but the old man only stamped his cigarette out.

“So now that I’ve told you all my problems, anything you want to talk about? Because, you know, there’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“I know,” Morty said, though it was clear from his tone he didn’t.

“So is it girl problems, then?” Father Bastian ventured.

Morty grimaced.

“I saw you and Aggie Tuft were talking it up quite a bit today.”

“Women,” Morty said.

“Don’t you know it.” Father Bastian pulled his coat collar tighter and looked around again, and Morty could tell the old priest was tired. “It’s cold as anything,” he said. “I think I have some hot chocolate, if you want, at the rectory. You could keep me company while I have a cup.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Nothing on your mind?”

“Most days my brain is pretty empty.”

“I doubt your brain is empty. I doubt that very much. Like I said, I could use the company myself, so the door’s open if you change your mind. I’m like the Motel 6: I’ll leave the light on.”

“No problem.”

“All right then. Goodnight.” With that, Father Bastian turned and walked carefully, making his way back across the cemetery grounds. Eventually he disappeared into the darkness, and then, later, a few lights went on in the rectory, one by one. In the distance the building looked warm and inviting. Morty drew his legs closer, for warmth. He was soaked through—his jeans and
coat still damp from the day. He shivered. Something small did come to him, looking off into the distance. It seemed to him there were two choices, at least, that he could make in that moment. He could sit there, freezing to death in the process, or he could get up and get a cup of cocoa, which was certain to make him feel better. The world might be large, and God and fate might both be unknowable, but at least there was in that moment a simple clarity. The thought of being inside and warm consoled him, so much that Morty stood up and ran after the priest. He ran so fast he surprised himself with his desire. He ran so fast he felt as though he might fall, toward the rectory and lights.

Most of the stories in
Everyone but You
were written during or shortly after my MFA program, during the years 2003 through 2005. I’d like to express my thanks to Louise Crowley and Vermont College. Mary Grimm, Christopher Noel, Laurie Alberts, Victoria Redel, David Jauss, Douglas Glover, Ellen Lesser, and Abby Frucht all led excellent workshops and imparted much wisdom. The talented Beth Helms inspired me to love words and to try harder.

Dennis Foley, Peach Gazda, Paige Harlow, and Terri Sutton kept me sane during those killer ten-day residencies, during which time I missed both my husband and dog to inordinate degrees. They are true friends.

My best friend and husband, Phil, has read countless drafts of everything I’ve ever written and so by now has realized the great majority of my hopes, fears, and quirky hang-ups.

My agent, Denise Shannon, has believed in me and kept my spirits buoyant, and for that I owe her my gratitude.

My editors, copy editors, and publicists at Random House have provided invaluable input and taught me much about the publishing process. Jennifer Hershey, Jessie Waters, and Dennis Ambrose have my sincere thanks.

Finally, many thanks to the literary journals that published such early work, and to the Illinois Arts Council and Christopher Isherwood Foundation for their support of the arts.

S
ANDRA
N
OVACK
is the author of the novel
Precious
. Her short stories have appeared in
The Iowa Review
,
The Gettysburg Review
,
Gulf Coast
,
The Chattahoochee Review
, and elsewhere. Novack currently resides in Chicago with her husband, Phil.