by Sara Crowley

For as long as Catherine could recall, the Virgin Mary had sat bluely on a window ledge four stairs up, her painted face inscrutable but presumably judgy. As a child, whenever Cat had gone up or down the staircase she’d paused and apologized for whatever she’d done wrong even if she wasn’t entirely sure she’d done anything. In her parents’ bedroom was a figurine she’d initially assumed was Joseph who she thought should be in the staircase alcove with Mary. Later she realized it was Jesus but in her head, he stayed Joseph. The statue had a beige face and brown draped robes, dots of red on the outstretched palms and a teeny pinch of a mouth. She’d ignored him, mainly, although every now and then if she caught his eye, she’d cross herself and say a really quick in-the-name-of-the-father-and-the-son-and-the-holy-ghost. Sometimes Mum would task her with dusting it, and she’d rub the cloth gently into the crevices, noting how many places there were for dust to settle and hoping he didn’t mind. She’d rub his small head and wish he worked like a genie, and then Louise would beg to be her best friend again.

As a teen, Catherine had stopped seeing the statuettes; they became as uninteresting to her as a Sunday Mass. She spent her time in church scanning the congregation for potential boyfriends — thrilled to catch sight of boys who seemed exotic simply because they didn’t go to her school — and passing the time by dividing the endless hour into three standing-ups and two kneeling-downs. She’d prayed that Tom Sullivan would kiss her again, then add a perfunctory plea for world peace. Once, when all she could think about were Tom’s lips on her skin, she had knelt on the stairs and offered a thousand Hail Marys in return for his love. When Tom started dating Louise, Dad had caught her flicking a V sign at Mary and had slapped her so hard her ears rang.

“Ringing in the ears is a message from the souls trapped in Purgatory,” Mum had said. “You have to pray for them.”

Another time Cat had stuck a finger up to the Jesus/Joseph figurine, widening her eyes sassily. An hour or so later in the playground at school when she tripped over her own feet and fell, she knew that the gravel digging into her knees was her penance.

Much later, when she was grown and her own children rushed up the staircase at Nanny and Grandad’s house, she’d yelled at them, “Mind Mary!” And, when they zoomed in and out of the bedrooms, “Be careful of Jesus!” The statues were visible to her again the way all potential hazards and accidents become when parenting. Her dad sometimes added his own shout, “Care-ful!” Equal stress on each syllable. His irritation stirred fear inside her but went unnoticed by his grandchildren. One time her son had built a Lego tower on the ledge, adjacent to the Mary statue, and taller. The tower wasn’t noticed until it was time to leave and Cat had marveled at his cheek, his courage. After Dad died, Mum kept his ashes in an urn where the Lego tower had once been. Sometimes Cat would talk to Dad in a hushed voice, his loss larger than she could ever have anticipated. Was it Mary or Dad she genuflected to?

Presumably, one day there would just be Cat. If Dad’s death had been hard, Mum’s was unthinkable. Future Cat would be swiping tears from her face and absence would fill her. Climbing the stairs she’d see Mary first then Jesus/Joseph. She’d imbue them with all sorts of power and meaning and have to take them into her own home. Their reign would continue. Considering this, she picked up Mary, noting her lightness, then mounted the stairs and collected Jesus/Joseph as well. Walking out into the garden, where the light was shifting to shadow, she held Mary in her left hand and Jesus in her right.

“Right then, Jesus, Mary. I’m Cat. Catherine. You’ve been here, what…. forty-five years? I’m sorry for what I’m about to do. Please forgive me. I’m doing this for future me and I hope you can understand. Amen.” She made the sign of the cross, then began whirling her arms before hurling the saints forcefully down the garden path. There was barely a sound as they smashed but hundreds of tiny plaster pieces, chalky white, confettied the ground. Mary’s head somehow remained intact, her eyes seeing all, or nothing.

Photo by Lewis Westwood Flood on Unsplash