A Matter of Faith

By Rick Bylina

After the sudden death of her father, Faith Moreno has to cope with newly revealed family secrets, navigate church politics and prejudices to keep her job as the music director for St. Mary's Roman Catholic Church, and overcome religious dogma to pursue the man she loves -- the broodingly handsome Father Pat, someone she has had a crush on since high school. Is his kindness and attention to her Christian compassion or does he have an agenda of his own?

When someone vandalizes the Moreno house, Detective Roger Stark is called to investigate. It starts him to wonder if something bigger and more sinister is going on. With his partner on his honeymoon, Stark weaves his way through scant and conflicting clues, a chorus of suspects, and whether or not God has already pre-determined the outcome. Does Faith Moreno's romantic pursuit of a Father Pat help Stark bring a murderer to justice or just mark her as another victim?

The meaning of the shocking outcome is all up to a matter of faith: Faith’s, Stark’s, and yours.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Bylina
• Release date: Aug 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466119826

Rick Bylina

Rick Bylina lives with his wife, Carrie, and their 20-year-old cockatiel, Sydney, near Apex, North Carolina. Ongoing corporate downsizing convinced him to tap into his passion. He scribbled down any crazy idea that crossed his mind. After gaining discipline, he wrote his debut mystery novel, "One Promise Too Many", the first in a series featuring Detective Roger Stark. Writing happens spontaneously between housework, gardening, cooking, fishing, and wrestling alligators. "One Promise Too Many" - available everywhere. "A Matter of Faith" - available everywhere. "All of Our Secrets" - available just about everywhere. "Bathroom Reading" - coming November, 2012

Book preview

Prologue

Titus Royals stared at the body, tangled in the brush at the edge of the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon. He wished it had fallen off the thousand-foot cliff. Not a good way to start off the New Year, he said, bundling up against the biting cold. He walked away.

~~~~~

Chapter 1

In the lulling warmth of St. Mary’s Roman Catholic Church, sweat beaded on the brow of Faith Moreno, the 25-year-old parish music director. Easter Mass ended, and she sat immobile on the pipe organ bench. Noisy parishioners exited out the back of the church, passing beneath the choir loft. Choir members gathered their personal belongings. Faith knew many parishioners found Holy Week joyous; however, her extra efforts to make their hour of devotion uplifting had exhausted her.

She watched Peter Ashley, her newest tenor, step down from the risers. His nervous gaze alternated from her to the congregation below and then back to the steps leading to the choir loft. When he reached her, he bent down and whispered into her ear, Iggy’s coming.

Faith cringed in anticipation of yet another confrontation with Iggy, the parish council president, her implicit boss and her personal tormentor. Because her choir sang so well, her embarrassing gaffe during Mass increased beyond measure. They’d spent so much time in the search of perfection, and she had ruined it. It was the worst thing that could possibly happen today.

She squeezed her eyes shut. In her mind, she heard Father Tom say during announcements, Father Patrick Sean Goodman arrives Monday. The unexpected news had jolted her. She hadn’t seen Sean since he graduated high school eleven years ago. The intensity of her feelings for him surprised her and caused her hand to slip onto the organ keys. A cacophony of notes erupted from the organ. She heard the rustle of the congregation and imagined their stares focused on the back of her head. The anonymity she craved in doing her job faded, along with the blasphemous noise.

Faith opened her eyes and watched Peter leave. She clicked off the organ and the collapsing bellows moaned softly. She had no explanation she cared to share with Iggy about the disruptive notes. The fault lay with her and her unfulfilled, youthful yearnings.

The rest of her choir vacated the loft, descending quickly, as if someone discretely ordered, Abandon ship. Faith turned off the lamp and stuffed sheet music into her satchel. Seated on the edge of the organ bench, she removed her tap shoes and slipped on a pair of thick-soled black pumps. As the last choir member clacked her way down the stairs, Faith heard the labored breathing of Ignatius Yablonski rapidly approaching.

His silver hair bobbed into view. The dark-framed glasses with thick lenses hid his accusatory dull blue-gray eyes. Blotchy redness dotted his droopy face and his mouth gaped like a fish gulping for breath on dry land. He stepped onto the landing and her focus dropped to the small feet of such a large, rotund man. For him to climb to the loft, his anger must be in full measure. She stood to greet him respectfully, raising her gaze to meet his.

Propriety ruled. Iggy straightened his tie and cleared his throat. He gathered a deep breath for his lecture. Of all the audacity, why was the communion song sung in Spanish?

Faith blinked. She shook her head in disbelief at the unexpected question. Her faith in the church leadership dipped even further than it had already sunk. The number of Hispanic parishioners had grown at St. Mary’s, in the city of Marshfield, throughout Pennsylvania, and the country itself. St. Mary’s Parish Council needed to accommodate them and distance itself from past discriminatory practices and prejudices, even if nominally in song in the one Mass at which Hispanics were a significant portion of the parishioners.

She would not argue with Iggy again, not now, not on her time.

Faith picked up her satchel and purse. If you want to talk to me about this again, I have office hours. See me then. Before losing her nerve, she headed for the stairs, brushing past a startled Iggy, still struggling to capture his breath.

We aren’t through with this yet, young lady.

#

In St. Mary’s parking lot after Easter Mass, Detective Roger Stark heard sirens as he placed his son into the car seat. A moment later, his cell phone played the Dragnet theme song. He left Robert unbuckled and stood next to the open car door.

His wife, Mary, stared at him from the other side of the car. A swirl of wind caught her shoulder-length red hair, and it rose like an angry flame about her pale face. Her blue eyes, the color of the first icy coating on a clear pond, met his. Her pupils shrunk to a pinhead. Except for hair length, he mused, the two of them wouldn’t have to wait long to grow old together to look alike. He smiled – half-apologetic, half-loving.

It’s not fair, she said through tightly drawn lips. She tossed her purse into the car and circled around to his side. And when are you going to change that silly ringtone?

It’s just a run of bad luck. Roger smiled, attempting to lighten the mood. The phone played the tune again. And I like the song.

They don’t summon the other detectives as often when they’re on call. Dispatch is taking advantage of your good nature. Mary reached into the car and straightened her son’s America’s Most Wanted T-shirt. The song played again.

There’s only six of us and Ed’s on his honeymoon. It won’t be like this forever. He rubbed Mary’s lower back with one hand to soothe her as she buckled up their eight-month-old son. Roger flipped open his cell phone. Stark here.

Val in Dispatch. There’s been an incident at 156 Church Street. The caller seemed confused, but a civilian is down. First responders are on the way. From the Crown Vic’s transponder, I know you’re only about a quarter-mile away.

Roger ran his hand over his short hair as he moved away from Mary. He cupped his hand around the phone and lowered his voice. Can you also tell I’ve just gotten out of church, and my wife and child are with me? He sucked in a deep breath to calm down. Val didn’t answer. The call came before anyone established the need for a detective’s involvement, and he thought about not responding to the incident. However, after only eight months in his position, the new-guy syndrome still weighed on him.

He blew out the breath he held. I’ll check it out, but you owe me.

Roger closed his cell phone and tugged Mary to him. Whatever happened is just up the street. Go home. I’ll catch a ride with a black and white unit later.

Mary offered a cheek; he twisted her chin with his hand and kissed her full on the lips. When she kissed back, he pulled away, teasing her, before giving in to her soft kiss. Her frown morphed into a crooked smile, and she swatted his shoulder playfully, as he backed away.

Go on, she said, Be a cop.

He went to the other side of the church and rushed onto the sidewalk paralleling Church Street’s gentle incline. Evidence of this past New Year’s Eve ice storm greeted him. Old-growth trees on the north side of the street had cracked and crashed like a line of dominoes under the icy weight. Every house had a stump snug against the street to remind them of what once had grown there. The memory of cutting downed limbs in the bitter cold aftermath at his house made him pull his suit coat tight even though it was a pleasant spring day. He hurried up the street. This is what I do; he mused and then said, echoing his wife with his mantra, I'm a cop.

The treeless street provided him an unobstructed view, and two patrol cars already sat in front of the house, while another approached from the opposite direction. An ambulance idled in the street. The memory of his trip in an ambulance last fall layered goose bumps on top of his shiver. Curious neighbors popped out of their houses. They drifted to the location, but stayed a respectful distance away.

Upon reaching the house, he headed up the driveway to the group of first responders. A paramedic, squatting next to the body, glanced up from his work. Call came in as a heart attack. The victim’s hand was still grabbing his shirt when we arrived. Ashen coloring. Blue lips. Flatline.

Jesus Moreno, Roger said, eyeing the blood trickle from a crack in the skull.

You know him?

I’ve met him and his daughter numerous times, Roger said.

Clear, another paramedic yelled. Roger backed away.

A high-pitched whine from the defibrillator sliced the air. A muffled pop followed.

Nothing, the paramedic said.

Roger backed further away and surveyed the scene.

From Jesus’ position on the ground, he must have been on the ladder, changing the light when the heart attack occurred. The ten-foot ladder still leaned securely against the house. Shards of a light bulb littered the driveway. Roger scratched his head. At the base of a ladder, a fat, orange cat lay in a pool of blood with all nine lives expired. A nasty gash oozed over one eye, and a telltale bloody spot inked the lowest rung of the ladder.

Roger approached an obese woman sitting on the ground and leaning against the chain-link fence separating the two properties. A cop prompted her. Just tell me what happened, Mrs. Shipley.

She unloaded her story in short bursts between sobs. I was talking to him from my kitchen window. He climbed the ladder to replace the motion-detector light. I told him it’s a young person’s job. He thumped his chest in response. Stupid macho pride. A paramedic slipped an oxygen mask on her. She took a few deep breaths, and then continued. I turned away. A few moments later, he screamed. I went to the window. He was on the ground, and poor Pumpkin, – she pointed to the cat – she was blind in one eye and must have hit the ladder on a dead run. I called 9-1-1 and then came out here. He wasn’t breathing. She caught a breath. You blink and life changes.

Was anyone else around?

No. She looked toward the street. The car…

Brakes squealed, cutting her off. Roger jerked around and saw a car jockeying for position on the street.

John Ives, the sleazy twerp. Roger eyed the reporter who had stepped halfway out of the car’s passenger door.

The street is getting congested, the cop said.

I’ll handle it. Roger directed two officers to keep Ives and onlookers back and the road open. Minutes later, he saw a small white car creeping up Church Street. Roger’s stomach tightened like a wrung out wash cloth at the thought of what awaited the driver. Remembering his own reaction years ago when told about his father’s death, he wished he hadn’t responded to this call.

#

Faith maneuvered around the vehicles as she drove up Church Street. She recognized Detective Stark in her driveway. He motioned for her to pull in. Her heart started to race. She drove to where he stood. After shutting off the engine, she exited the car and scanned the scene. Neighbors stared at her with weighted faces and folded arms, dabbing eyes with tissues.

Mrs. Shipley sobbed by the fence. The ladder stood against the house, and near it, splinters of glass sparkled in the noon sun. Spotting Pumpkin lying still near the ladder, she gasped. Faith’s gaze settled on a group of men huddled nearby. Her pulse quickened further. When one man shifted his position, she saw her dad lying on the ground. She covered her mouth.

Faith expected her resilient father to wave from his prone position and thump his chest with his fist. Quivering, she edged her way to the front of her car. They lifted her diminutive father onto a stretcher. She leaned forward to rush toward him, but Stark restrained her, and though she struggled to get past him, he held her firm, his presence representing the worst possible scenario.

Let them do their job, Stark said.

Did someone do something to him? she squeezed out.

He shook his head. Heart attack.

She quit struggling. He’s OK, right? She nodded intent on controlling Stark’s answer before he had a chance to give it.

No, I’m sorry.

No, no, no. It’s my fault, she wailed. He fell changing that damned light. She wheezed between sobs. Bile leached up her throat. She gagged, wanting to vomit, to get rid of the hurt building inside her.

Just breathe, he said.

She looked up at him. You don’t understand. He couldn’t understand. Dad can’t die like this. He didn’t receive Easter communion. He can’t die out of grace, denied God’s love.

Stark’s stare hardened. He grasped her by the shoulders. Don’t you ever believe that.

She closed her eyes to shut out his stare, surprised by the conviction in his voice, each word a firm slap. But Jesus hadn’t been to church in years despite his insistence that he and God talked. Her body shook. She sobbed harder, and then felt Stark’s rough grasp relax.

Let’s go inside the house. He corralled her with his arms, as the stretcher squeaked in their direction.

Her eyes opened wide. I want to see my father. The wind gathered her words and whisked them away, as grief tore at her like a riptide, sweeping her legs out from beneath her. She collapsed to her knees. Stark raised her up. She buried her head into his chest and blurted, How can God do this?

~~~~~

Chapter 2

Faith sat at the funeral home on Tuesday evening. Her grandma had abandoned her mother, Helen, long ago when she married, that Mexican looking for a green card. Now Grandma’s absence confirmed how she felt about Jesus and Faith. Faith looked at the empty chairs next to her for what felt like the hundredth time. Her mom’s death years ago left her feeling conspicuously alone at her father's wake in the front row of a room filling with people.

Can I get you a drink? Mrs. Shipley appeared before Faith for the third time.

No thanks.

Any word from Lolita? Mrs. Shipley pulled out her hankie.

Not since last night. She was at her aunt’s and had only just received the message from her husband, Tito. Faith sighed, missing the comfort that her stepsister would have provided. Tito is so slack. And I guess it’s tougher to get here from Mexico on the spur of the moment than I realize.

Jesus was so young. Mrs. Shipley blew her nose into her hankie and waddled back to her husband.

Dad was young. Faith swiped her hand across her eyes. The realization he died out of grace caused a pain deep enough to render eating and sleeping nearly impossible the past two days. She couldn’t stop thinking about it despite Stark’s words. God’s love denied, possibly forever. The thought narrowed her anger at God like a sunbeam focused to a pinpoint. Losing faith in God’s plan scabbed over her ability to express her concern to Father Tom, so it festered to the point where she couldn’t pick at it. All she could do was try and deny her own thoughts.

An impromptu line of mourners offered their condolences. Despite her inner turmoil, the turnout pleased her. If Dad only knew his life had touched so many. She thought, why do we wait until someone’s dead to let them know how much they meant to us?

Jesus’ co-workers slid past, offering condolences. One asked, Was his heart bad?

She shrugged, not knowing whether he had a heart condition for a month, six weeks, or a year. He hadn’t confided in her, and she only inquired about his health upon taking another pair of loose pants to the goodwill box. He assured her, banging his fist on his chest. Nothing is wrong. Why carry extra weight?

Neighbors patted her folded hands. Mrs. Shipley came by again. She draped her flabby arms around her and sobbed until her husband prodded her to move on. Faith watched her leave, knowing that Mrs. Shipley imagined herself a surrogate mother. Faith knew better. Mrs. Shipley dispensed advice to who ever listened. She rarely left her kitchen, even though she couldn’t cook. Faith ate, at her father’s urging, too many helpings of Shipley’s dried-out, onion-rich meatloaf. Her television played at indiscriminate hours, and installing cable hadn’t improved her viewing selections. Faith blushed at her disparaging thoughts about a good neighbor at a time like this.

Marisa, her dark hair pulled back, peered over some stoop-shouldered neighbors. Still in work clothes, she approached the table next to Jesus’ open casket and ran her hand along the edge of Pumpkin’s picture. She made her way to Faith and hugged her, dragging the smell from her job at Animal Watchers in her wake. Faith didn’t want the hug with her best friend to end.

I’m sorry. We had an emergency, and I couldn’t get away. I’m a mess.

It’s OK, Faith assured her, happy that Marisa saved her from the empty house the past two nights.

Pumpkin had a long life because of you. I’ll miss her. Marisa stood back and straightened her shirt.

Faith focused on Marisa’s dark-brown eyes, wondering for the millionth time how her own eyes ended up blue.

Your daddy was a good man. Never forget that. Marisa left teary-eyed, and Faith welled up again, her gaze downcast.

Peter Ashley took Faith’s hand. She looked up at his sad eyes underpinned by drooping bags of loose skin on an otherwise taut face. His directionless brown hair looked as though he’d been standing under a strong fan. He bent over and brought his full lips close to her ear, stuttering several times before whispering his question much as he mouthed his warning about Iggy on Sunday.

"Father Tom asked me to s-s-sing Ava Maria at the funeral. Is that OK with you?"

Yes. Dad’s favorite. He’d like that.

Faith drew in a breath. How did Father Tom know to request that song? Sunday evening replayed in her mind when he guided her across the living room of her house and introduced her to John Stuckey.

She shook this stranger’s hand but didn’t raise her eyes in greeting. The day’s shock had rendered her nearly catatonic.

Don’t worry. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements, Stuckey said. I know what your dad wanted. We had a contract for this eventuality.

She ceded control to Stuckey, and in death, as in life, her dad took care of her. She hadn’t thought about his words, we had a contract, until just now, but the thought vanished like a whisper in a whirlwind.

Sitting in the funeral parlor, she felt ashamed for not having done more in the past or now. It made her uncomfortably warm. Peter stood to her left like a self-appointed guard, shifting his stance and constantly clearing his throat. Choir members passed her in a cluster. After the Neuhauser twins departed, she dabbed her eyes once more before sensing someone sitting to her right.

I’m sorry for your loss.

She peeked over the top of her tissue.

Sean, she exhaled in a whisper.

He smiled. Well, it’s Father Pat now, but Sean is OK for a former Southie like you.

I…I. Faith blushed. She couldn’t will herself to speak. Sunday's surprise announcement of his coming stirred feelings she'd forgotten about. Eleven years ago, she had pined for him from afar at South High School. His boyish good looks had given way to a roguish, almost brooding, handsomeness. He looked like one of those models on the cover of a romance novel.

It’s OK. This is tough enough without surprises, but I only arrived late Sunday and heard the news. Monday was a blur, but I wanted to pass on my condolences and say hello as soon as possible. He slid off his chair and knelt on one knee to be eye-to-eye with her. He made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and then took her hand.

Faith felt light-headed. She stared at his hands holding hers. The reality of him being a priest dissolved. To her, he remained a teen heartthrob. He would always be Sean.

If you need anything, he slipped a card into her hand, let me know. I’ve replaced Father Bob as the parish counselor. Come by and talk. I know you’ll have good and bad days, but I’m here for you.

He released Faith’s hand and stood. Father Tom beckoned to him. He was gone, and she wondered if he’d really been there in the first place. Faith wheezed and struggled to breathe.

An attendant approached, opening a small paper bag. You’re hyperventilating.

She covered her nose and mouth with it. What’s happening to me?

The attendant shielded Faith with a cloth screen and shooed Peter away. A minute later, she followed the attendant's gaze and saw the funeral home director tapping his watch.

Are you OK? the attendant asked, grabbing the screen.

No, but I understand. Faith knew the routine, having sat through too many wakes and played for many more funerals. She thought about appropriate musical selections, and was suddenly embarrassed how easily she slipped from the reality of why she was here to think about the tasks she’d normally perform. Her thoughts whirled between being the grieving daughter and the professionalism needed to be a funeral organist.

Before the attendant left the room, the director asked everyone to sit. He thanked them for coming and called Father Tom up front to lead them in prayer and to say a few words about the dearly departed.

Faith hated that line. People had names, and she whispered her father’s full name, Jesus Angel Herberto Alvarez Jesus Moreno.

Father Tom led the attendees in prayer and then cleared his throat. Jesus Moreno was born on May 16, 1940. His daughter, Lolita Moreno Martinez, born to Jesus’ first wife, Maria Lopez, who tragically died in childbirth on September 12, 1959, survives him. He is also survived by a son-in-law, Tito Martinez, a grandson, Jesus Martinez, and a great-grandchild, Angel Martinez.

Father Tom’s words seeped into her numbed consciousness. Her life in relation to her dad intermingled with the factual recitation of his life.

Twenty years later, Jesus found love again with Helen Jones. Unfortunately, Helen passed away in 1992. From that union, Jesus is survived by his daughter, Faith Moreno, St. Mary’s music director and elementary school music teacher.

For the umpteenth time, Faith pondered if she would even exist if Maria hadn’t died. Was her death part of God’s plan, too?

Her mom’s oval face, pale blue eyes, soft alabaster skin, and thin lips, came into sharp focus in Faith’s mind. Short blond hair, honey in the summer and light brown in the winter, framed her mother’s face. Her button nose completed an image so real Faith could almost smell her mother’s fragrance again.

Faith sighed at the mixed bag of genes she was. Her mother’s hair dangled to Faith’s shoulder. Her dad’s thick lips and long lashes made her self-conscious because of the way they stood out when she applied make-up. Her pale blue eyes melted into her whites in contrast to her permanent tan. A recessive gene deep in the Jones family lineage had made her taller than her father by age thirteen and a final spurt took her to five feet, eight inches. Thank God I have my mom’s nose, she thought, but a constant battle raged to keep off those extra pounds from Jesus’ cooking. Nonetheless, she knew she’d miss every one of the dishes he made and regretted never learning how to cook them. How much more would she grow to regret? How many memories would fade too quickly?

Mom’s fateful trip to Cabo San Lucas years ago began with the long-forgotten acquaintance’s impromptu invitation to attend a local wedding. Jesus, the bride’s father, swept Helen off her feet at the reception in the joy of Lolita’s wedding. He was fourteen years older than the sad and lonely Helen, but he made her dance and laugh until morning, and then he called her every day for two weeks, and then he visited her every day for two months when she defied her parents and took a summer job at one of the resorts. Then, he married her.

Helen’s mother was furious. You have spent twenty-five years getting your degrees. You have a masters in education. What are you doing with a Mexican laborer?

He’s not a Mexican laborer. He builds boats, is a skilled welder, and makes wonderful scrap metal art. Most importantly, he makes me smile.

We can hire a damn clown if you need to smile. Come home now or stay there penniless.

Helen ignored the ultimatum.

Faith imagined her mother’s soft voice retelling the story, and then realized she had daydreamed through the remainder of the wake, remembering none of the tributes to her father.

Everyone had left. Father Tom gently tugged on her arm. She stood, as if emerging from deep water with her clothes soaked and heavy, her legs unable to move forward because of the weight of her burden.

Time to go, he said, nudging her toward the coffin.

Her fingertips barely brushed the cold polished wood, as she whispered, I’ll miss you. She wanted to say more, wanted to throw herself on the coffin and wail, wanted to have one more day watching him sculpt metal, wanted one more hour listening to his stories, wanted one more meal that would go straight to her hips, wanted all those things and more that she would never have again. Her throat tightened, and she couldn’t speak what was in her heart. Her shoulders drooped in a posture dad would never allow. She turned away from the coffin, lingering one last moment at Pumpkin’s picture, and then shuffled to the exit.

Father Tom drove slowly to her house. Are you going to be all right?

She nodded and stared at the floorboard. I have to work on the music for Wednesday morning’s Mass. The children’s choir expects me there. Faith blinked. Wednesday was tomorrow. The days had melted into a long twilight where life continued in hushed whispers in slow swirling movements around her. She hovered between a fuzzy reality and the sharp-focused nightmare of being alone.

We have a substitute covering your classes for this week and next. Evette is doing all the Masses. You have your father’s funeral tomorrow afternoon. Say goodbye to him, and then put your affairs in order. He turned onto Avenue A.

His words sounded cold, but he was just being business-like in keeping with his manner, but still, she shuddered at the ease with which she was replaced and turned worried eyes to Father Tom.

Work would be better, She said, fearing what awaited her.

No argument, he said, wagging a finger at her. Get some rest. He pulled onto Church Street. It’s easy to question God’s plan at a moment like this, but we must have faith that all things will work out in the end under His guidance. The path to redemption, the path to His kingdom, takes many unexpected turns.

She didn’t want to hear any more.

This too shall pass.

He pulled up to the curb in front of the house.

No more empty clichés. Please!

He put the car into park. God’s will be done.

Faith bolted from the car, sprinting past the spot where Jesus had fixed the cracked sidewalk, encasing her hand print years ago. She flew up the short walkway bordered by struggling pansies he’d planted only a month ago to fend off the long and gloomy Pennsylvania winter. She cleared the three steps to the wide porch in a single leap. How often she sat there on hot summer nights imagining a different life. Though her tear-stained memories clouded her sight, she found the house key and opened the front door, slamming it shut behind her.

After the resounding echo of the closing door faded, the silence surprised her. She leaned back on the front door and wiped her tears, calming herself. She quivered with each breath. The sound broke the silence only to be echoed over time by the pounding of her heart. The sudden aloneness crushed her as though the weight of her parents’ unfulfilled dreams for her rested on her shoulders.

Previously unnoticed household creaks and moans revealed themselves, and her gaze darted to where the source of each sound stayed hidden from her stare. The house’s emptiness overwhelmed her. No Latino music played on the radio to the sound of Jesus rustling the newspaper or polishing a finished metal sculpture with an oily rag whose smell would linger thick enough to leave a faint metallic taste in her mouth. No television noise filtered over from Mrs. Shipley’s house. No cat pounced down the stairs to greet her, rub up against her legs, and meow until fed more food than she needed. No sumptuous supper waited for her in the refrigerator to be warmed in the microwave. No eye-catching, colorful notes taped to her bedroom door requesting her to pick up this or do that. The world within the house remained the way it had been earlier in the day when she left. Her father was gone forever.

She wiped away the remaining tears and trudged upstairs to her bedroom. With each step, the weight of her loss, unsupported by her waning faith in an afterlife resurrection for Jesus, weighed her down. How could she believe in God’s plan if it denies her father admittance into Heaven?

~~~~~

Chapter 3

Faith sat tearless next to Marisa, as Father Tom presided over the Mass for Jesus. Marisa’s return to the house last night after Father Tom left saved Faith from a night of increasingly depressing thoughts. She had saved Faith, but tonight, an empty house awaited Faith unless Lolita arrived.

The funeral Mass ended.

Faith trudged up the path to St. Mary's cemetery in the early afternoon with the other mourners. The warm spring sun cut the cold air, and she buttoned and unbuttoned her coat, unable to find a temperate balance. Brilliant sunshine sparkled against the somber mood, casting a conflicting dissonance to the day, building on top of her discomfort. A confused breeze stopped and started without reason, fluttering flags, and blowing dried, restless leaves across the ground. At graveside, Faith stood without support, as the pall bearers laid Jesus to rest