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Authors: Jana Bommersbach
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years, from which she’d buried her parents and would herself be buried, not too many months from now.
Her eyes widened and she made a pitiful sound from the back of her throat, because she didn’t know how she’d gotten here. For a second or two— a blissful, lovely, comforting second or two—she couldn’t remember why she’d come this morning.
She wouldn’t get any more gifts like that today, when all the pain came flooding back. She slowly, noisily, thumbed her way down the center aisle and over to the side altar where the Virgin Mary balanced on a pedestal. Gertie could never look at that statue without seeing the carved marble altar that used to surround Mary, an altar torn away in a modernization from Vatican II that she neither understood nor favored. The Virgin’s shrine looked so bare to her now.
Nine candles were already burning beneath Mary’s statue when Gertie put her three dollars into the metal box and lit hers. Even at this moment, she knew she couldn’t properly kneel, so she half-sat, half-kneeled in the first pew. She closed her eyes and got no farther than “Hail Mary, full of grace,” before the tears came again.
Gertie Bach said her own private rosary through sobs and sighs before she opened her eyes. She took her time, because she never said the rosary in the rote way many did, the sing-song way that comes naturally when you’re saying the same prayer fifty times. She said each word as an individual prayer to be certain the Blessed Mother was pleased with her efforts.
The Catholic Church has some lovely prayers, but the one that speaks to its core—the one that is only Catholic and is the first prayer a member of the faithful utters in a time of need—is the Hail Mary. Gertie had never once worried that her Protestant friends thought Catholics were a little nutty over Mary. She knew the truth. The Mother of God didn’t create this church. She didn’t name it or give it its rules. No member of her gender had any real decision-making rights in its hierarchy. But the Mother of God was the one who got things done and every Catholic knew it.
So Gertie prayed from her heart to the Blessed Mother for the soul of Amber Schlener.
It was getting on eight a.m. when she made her way down the back stairs to the church basement’s kitchen.
Maggie Bonner arrived promptly at eight, astonished to see Gertie in her bib apron. “Oh God, Gertie, we don’t expect you to be here today. You have to be with the family.”
Gertie waved her off and kept organizing the ingredients like a general getting her troops in order. Maggie deposited the plastic sacks full of fresh buns from the bakery on the service counter, and walked over to her old friend.
“Gertie, I’m so sorry.” She took the woman in her arms. “Joya sends her love. She’d be here if she could.” She kindly stretched the truth.
Gertie tried to hide her face, hoping her eyes weren’t too red and the tears would hold back. But the crying she’d already done this day—done last night at the wake, done the day before when she sat with Nettie, done since she first heard and collapsed on her living room floor—that kind of crying leaves an unmistakable swelling around the eyes.
“I know,” Maggie cooed, as she rubbed her friend’s back. “It’s so hard. I just can’t believe it. It’s such a shame. She was such a special girl.” They were the identical words Maggie had whispered to Nettie the night before at the visitation in the high school gym. Oh, that had been terrible—all those teenagers wailing in grief. All those townsfolk crying in agony. Maggie had never been to a visitation where emotions were so raw, so wrenching.
Gertie kept nodding against Maggie’s shoulder. And then, as though her breath came from the pit of her lungs, she straightened up to her full five-feet-five-inches, wiped her nose with the handkerchief from her apron pocket, and gave a closed-mouth smile. “Come on, we have a lot of hungry
Her eyes widened and she made a pitiful sound from the back of her throat, because she didn’t know how she’d gotten here. For a second or two— a blissful, lovely, comforting second or two—she couldn’t remember why she’d come this morning.
She wouldn’t get any more gifts like that today, when all the pain came flooding back. She slowly, noisily, thumbed her way down the center aisle and over to the side altar where the Virgin Mary balanced on a pedestal. Gertie could never look at that statue without seeing the carved marble altar that used to surround Mary, an altar torn away in a modernization from Vatican II that she neither understood nor favored. The Virgin’s shrine looked so bare to her now.
Nine candles were already burning beneath Mary’s statue when Gertie put her three dollars into the metal box and lit hers. Even at this moment, she knew she couldn’t properly kneel, so she half-sat, half-kneeled in the first pew. She closed her eyes and got no farther than “Hail Mary, full of grace,” before the tears came again.
Gertie Bach said her own private rosary through sobs and sighs before she opened her eyes. She took her time, because she never said the rosary in the rote way many did, the sing-song way that comes naturally when you’re saying the same prayer fifty times. She said each word as an individual prayer to be certain the Blessed Mother was pleased with her efforts.
The Catholic Church has some lovely prayers, but the one that speaks to its core—the one that is only Catholic and is the first prayer a member of the faithful utters in a time of need—is the Hail Mary. Gertie had never once worried that her Protestant friends thought Catholics were a little nutty over Mary. She knew the truth. The Mother of God didn’t create this church. She didn’t name it or give it its rules. No member of her gender had any real decision-making rights in its hierarchy. But the Mother of God was the one who got things done and every Catholic knew it.
So Gertie prayed from her heart to the Blessed Mother for the soul of Amber Schlener.
It was getting on eight a.m. when she made her way down the back stairs to the church basement’s kitchen.
Maggie Bonner arrived promptly at eight, astonished to see Gertie in her bib apron. “Oh God, Gertie, we don’t expect you to be here today. You have to be with the family.”
Gertie waved her off and kept organizing the ingredients like a general getting her troops in order. Maggie deposited the plastic sacks full of fresh buns from the bakery on the service counter, and walked over to her old friend.
“Gertie, I’m so sorry.” She took the woman in her arms. “Joya sends her love. She’d be here if she could.” She kindly stretched the truth.
Gertie tried to hide her face, hoping her eyes weren’t too red and the tears would hold back. But the crying she’d already done this day—done last night at the wake, done the day before when she sat with Nettie, done since she first heard and collapsed on her living room floor—that kind of crying leaves an unmistakable swelling around the eyes.
“I know,” Maggie cooed, as she rubbed her friend’s back. “It’s so hard. I just can’t believe it. It’s such a shame. She was such a special girl.” They were the identical words Maggie had whispered to Nettie the night before at the visitation in the high school gym. Oh, that had been terrible—all those teenagers wailing in grief. All those townsfolk crying in agony. Maggie had never been to a visitation where emotions were so raw, so wrenching.
Gertie kept nodding against Maggie’s shoulder. And then, as though her breath came from the pit of her lungs, she straightened up to her full five-feet-five-inches, wiped her nose with the handkerchief from her apron pocket, and gave a closed-mouth smile. “Come on, we have a lot of hungry
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