Even If the Sky Falls (7 page)

The world it jests

it plays for bets.

It takes a soul

or two at best.

So quell your fears,

and take flight

let's be wanderers

just for tonight.

Come, come away,

to the evening that awaits.

Come, come away,

to the evening that awaits.

Pack your troubles

though they wail and storm

tonight's for lovers

no room for scorn.

And when she drinks

against her lips

the night alight on her fingertips.

So quell your fears,

and take flight

let's be wanderers

just for tonight.

Come, come away,

to the evening that awaits.

Come, come away,

to the evening that awaits.

Never waste

a single breath,

a night to wake

no time to fret,

a night to live,

a merry wanderer ready to forgive.

L
OYOLA
C
ATHEDRAL IS OPEN, AND IT SHOULD NOT BE.
T
HIS FACT
is a very welcome development, since Miles and I have just escaped from the clutches of several very drunk frat-boy types whose idea of a costume is simply to unzip their pants. Granted, the having to escape part is my fault; sarcasm and a man's penis size don't go hand in hand . . . so to speak.

They are about a block behind us, and I make the mistake of turning my head to see where they are. The most vocal of the four catches my eye and attempts to smile, but it just looks like he's unsure of whether or not he has to vomit. This doesn't stop him from shouting in my direction.

“Offer is still open, baby-uh-cupcakes-and-cream-heart.” He reaches down to grope himself. I stick my pinkie finger up in the air, wiggle it, and shake my head.

Overall not my best idea.

Hence I am more than elated that the Holy Name of Jesus Parish (official name) is open even though the last Mass was at six that evening. Perhaps it's open all the time. My church back home started locking its doors around eight after a particular set of rowdy teens decided to have a midnight rager.

I wish I knew more about architecture. Words, anything really, to describe what I'm seeing. The only word I can think of is breathtaking.

The temperature shifts as we enter and quietly close the doors behind us. My eyes travel to the large stone pillars and up to the arches and the expansive ceiling, perfect for sound to bounce back and forth. Stained glass captures the lamplight from the outside, bringing the stories to life.

The squeak of our sneakers travels up and up, fading as we walk. There are no other sounds; the silence makes me nervous after the vibrancy of the streets. My memories threaten to slip out without the Mid-Summer energy to hold them in. I concentrate on how the light radiates from the archways, glowing, breathing, and warm. If I close my eyes I can hear Father Lopez giving his Sunday sermon.

I see Adam sitting on a bench, and my step catches. When I open my eyes, he is gone.
The doors shouldn't have
been open,
I think,
and we should not be here.

“I don't think this was a good idea.”

“Want to go back outside with the drunks?”

I shake my head, pushing old Julie away. Not letting her creep into every thought. This is new Julie's night. No squares permitted.

“It's a place of worship, pretty sure we're allowed.”

“Only during business hours,” I quip.

His laugh travels the way of my footsteps, and though it fades, the memory of it lingers and lightens my spirit.

“Sad, right? That you can't just walk into a church when you need one. Isn't that the purpose of them? Sanctuary and all.” He faces the expanse and yells, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”

I shake my head and he gets louder, so I reach up and clasp a hand over his mouth, his words echoing. Somewhere a door bursts open behind the giant pillars and we both Red-Light freeze like carefree children.

“Green light!” I whisper, and we duck behind the nearest pew.

“Nicely done,” he says, crouching, and I beam. You're not always lucky enough to find your Red Light, Green Light soul mate. We can't see anything. I wait for footsteps but nothing comes. We hear the door close, creaking, and we are plunged back into silence.

“Maybe we should go,” I say again.

“Let's sit a while; it's quieter here than in all of Orleans. We'll miss it later.”

It's true, I feel calmer the more I think about it. Miles takes my hand, and we walk over to a set of pews, toward the back, as hidden as possible.

“It's quiet like this that pulls out every truth in your soul,” he says, then turns to me. “Can you feel it?”

I can, but I don't want to. I'm not quick enough to hide the emotions flashing across my face, and I know Miles sees my fear, my sadness, before I can hide them away.

“Okay?” he asks, and I nod.

Lies, lies, lies. But I can live with these lies for tonight, though perhaps one truth will help. “I just think my truths are good where they are right now.”

“Fair enough,” he says.

I take a seat, and Miles lies down on the pew behind me. Part of me wishes he'd taken the seat next to me, but something about the distance feels right at the moment. Having him so close for so long is making it hard to think.

Leaning his banjo to one side, Miles stretches out on the pew. “Yeah, this is more like it.” A wink. I roll my eyes.

“So.” He sits back up, a smile on his face. “Questions, Questions time!”

Miles's excitement for the night feels like a constant thing, effortless, natural. Makes me want to drown in it. “Okay.”

He shifts toward me, resting his head on the back of my pew, a wicked little grin on his face. “Pets.”

“Not a one.” I picture a dog with the same amount of energy as Miles bounding in front of him as they walk.

“Really, you've never had any pets?”

“Not even a goldfish.”

“Strict parents?”

“I guess. I'm allergic to dogs so I had to set myself up for a lifetime of disappointment. I don't think cats are supposed to be pets—more like very expensive roommates that occasionally look like they want to kill you.”

“Birds?”

I shiver. “No way. Have you seen the movie
The Birds
? They can't be trusted either. Besides, allergies.”

“How do you cope?”

“Kleenex and a deep sense of longing. Lots of waving at dogs from across the street. You?”

He leans back on his pew, hands behind his head. “I had a cat—or a roommate, as you say. It was a street cat that I fed once, just once, and it would come over every day after that. On occasion it would let me pet it out of the kindness of its heart. You like Shakespeare, yes?”

“Hey.” I wag my finger at him. “It's my turn.”

“Do your worst.”

I make a show of thinking over my options. “Let's see, politics, world news . . .”

He waits patiently, watching me count the options on
my fingers like a first grader until I decide. “Favorite food.”

He scratches his chin in deep thought. “Now, I know I should say something N'awlins based, I really should, but it's actually pizza. Chicago style. Can't help it.” He points to me, my turn to answer the question.

“Mashed potatoes. It's the only thing I know how to cook, but I do a pretty good job.”

We bounce off more questions, the surface of our lives echoing off the walls, not caring who if anyone could hear us anymore; the cathedral seemed empty but there were plenty of corners to hide in. My laughter feels strange as we continue—this odd thing traveling out of me—effortlessly given up to the night. In a way, I almost don't recognize it when it echoes back to me.

There is a moment of quiet, and I roll onto my back to stare at the stained-glass saints and Jesus depicting several scenes from the Bible my bad Catholic self can't identify; my wings crunch under my weight, and I shift until I am comfortable. The quiet is only interrupted by moments of incredulity from Miles's responses to my questions.

“What do you mean you haven't seen
The Princess Bride
?” I pop up from where I was lying on my pew and drape my hand over the backrest to slap him on the shoulder.

Miles holds his hands up. “Don't hurt me, it won't change the fact that I haven't seen it.”

“Inconceivable,” I reply.

“Not really, just not a lot of time for movies.”

“Inconceivable!”

“You keep using that word,” Miles says, and I wait for him to complete the line as surely this is a jest. But he doesn't.

I finish it for him, “I don't think it means what you think it means.”

“I'm pretty sure I do know what it means.”

“Whoa, you don't even get the reference.” I shake my head—how could there be a person on earth who hasn't seen that film? They must have shown it fifty times on TV during the summer Adam left. I knew it by heart. “Do you have a favorite film then? Oh God, it's
Scarface
, isn't it? Why is it always
Scarface
?”

“It is not
Scarface
.” He hops up on the bench, walking along its length. I watch him, high above me. “Okay, so growing up we all want to be like our parents at one point, right?”

“Right. My mom had these amazing bangs when I was nine, so I totally grabbed a pair of scissors and—” I mimic cutting my own hair.

He stretches his long legs, hopping over on my pew and sitting on top of the backrest. “I bet you looked amazing.”

“I thought I did.”

“How did your mom take it?”

She grounded me. And Adam, who was supposed to be watching over me but was playing video games instead. “Not well.”

For a moment I fear bringing up that memory will cause the others to tumble through. I am ready to shove them back by force if necessary.

Miles leans down, grabbing a long strand of hair that's come loose from my ponytail, and I forget all about the threat of the past. “You were saying about wanting to be like our parents . . .”

He drops the strand and hops down beside me. “My dad was, is, a huge Eddie Murphy fan. So I wanted to be a huge Eddie Murphy fan too. Watched all his films religiously, even the bad ones.”

“So,” I interrupt, “it's
Coming to America
or
Trading Places.
”

Miles narrows his eyes, looking me up and down as if assessing me for the first time.

“What? Surprised I know my eighties comedy?”

“I will never underestimate you again.” He touches my nose, a quick tap before he continues on. The gesture—one of familiarity and amusement, lightens my heart. I try and look away to the stained glass or the wrought-iron lamps that hang just above our heads, but I can't keep my eyes away from him for too long. “It should be one of those, but no. The damn film I always go back to is
The Golden Child
.” He cringes as he says it.

“I don't think I've heard of that one.”

He exhales. “Don't do it, it's horrible. Eddie Murphy is a private detective who has to find this chosen kid before a
lot of demons do. It's wrong in so many ways. It's so bad.”

“Then why is—”

“I have no idea. I think it's so bad it's good in a way. We watch it to make fun of it and it's amazing. Truly. Horrible but amazing.”

“I believe that's called a guilty pleasure, and there is no shame in that.”

“Care to name one then?”

Well, I walked right into that one. My face is turning beet red as I make a mental list of all my guilty pleasures: Marathoning
Teen Wolf
on repeat until I can recite each line by heart. The artistic readings of the tattered romance novels Em and Kara take home from the library. Actually that might be a good one to share.

“It's not really a guilty pleasure as much as an artistic performance,” I start.

Miles nods. “You're stalling.”

“I am.”

He takes my hand in his. “Trust me. Whatever it is, it can't be worse than
The Golden Child
.”

“Sometimes my friends and I borrow these really steamy romance novels from the library and then read them aloud like a play.”

He's trying not to laugh. “Like trashy story time?”

I hide my face in my hands. “Yes.”

He pulls my hands down, trying to meet my eyes. “Put me down for Tuesdays.”

“Will do.” I imagine him in my bedroom reading the silly lines from the really old romance novels and I almost start cracking up, until the image becomes just him and I, alone on my bed, novel on the floor . . .
oh God, don't blush, don't blush. Look at something calming. There's Jesus, oh good. That's working.

We are quiet again, another lull—they get easier each time. Miles starts tapping on the back of the pew, a simple rhythm at first, then a beat. Each finger taps out a different note. I watch the rapid movement, transfixed. A song is forming. He starts to hum, closing his eyes, and I take the opportunity to stare at him without him looking back; his body is so relaxed, the muscles in his arms pulsing, his other hand resting on his thigh, I want to reach forward and lace our fingers together. I want to rest my hand on his thigh.

“Who's there?” The voice bounces off the walls as a figure comes into view. Miles and I dive between the pews. He can't see us. Miles pulls down his banjo; we huddle and wait. I inch closer, relishing the brush of his breath against my neck. The footsteps get closer. “Who is there?”

His eyes meet mine—he is a breath away.
Close the gap, close the gap, close the gap.
“Run?”

I nod. “Run.” And we bolt, not waiting for the steps to get any closer.

“There are no shenanigans allowed on sacred ground,” the guy, whoever he is, calls after us, but we're already back
into the night, in the streets, music folding around us, welcoming us in.

We slow after two blocks, our hands still entwined.

Miles tsks at me. “Now, now, Sunshine. No shenanigans allowed.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

“Which way?” he says.

I smile and tuck my hands over my chest. “Ready?”

His gaze flicks down to my waist, to where his hands would soon be. “Ready.”

I close my eyes, mouth quirking, and spin.

When he stops me my hand hits his side, I lose my balance and fall toward him. My eyes fly open and the first thing I see is his mouth inches from me, his hands warm along my hips. I point somewhere off in the distance behind him.

He holds me for a moment before we break apart.

When I speak my voice is light and does not tremble. “I'll miss our little sanctuary. Won't you?”

Miles looks back at the cathedral, then back to me. “Sanctuary is a person, not a place.”