Daily Bread

By Carlyann Carey (@cc.carey)

There’s a burning in the back of her throat and she’s wondering if she’s getting sick. Maggie swallows once, examining the way the saliva travels through her mouth, stinging a little when it moves past her uvula and catching before it makes its way to the pit of her stomach. It’s a spring morning. The birds are chirping happily, creating a welcome contrast to the gray room she’s standing in. Even through her shoes-Mary Jane's with a thick black heel-Maggie can feel the coolness of the stone beneath her. 

The only light in the room streams through the stained glass high above her, surrounding the length of the building. Dark reds and yellows shimmer across the wooden pews and pool at her feet. Maggie likes the feeling of her shoes, she appreciates the extra height, and clacks the heels together while scanning the room. 

“Ah, Maggie.” From the lefthand corner, right by the altar, comes Father David. He’s in his usual clothes, which means he’s dressed in black with a little white band at the collar. 

When she first saw it she thought he had a weird way of storing his tissues. She told him this and didn’t understand why he bent over laughing and told her that out of all the people he’s visited as a priest, that was a first. Which totally couldn’t have been true because he’s visited literally everyone and there has to be someone in New York more clueless than her. In her defense, she’s never gone to church in the twenty three years she’s been alive and the two years she’s lived in Brooklyn. She didn’t even know what confession was until she watched Interview With The Vampire and said to herself “hey, there’s a church a block from here.” 

Now she’s familiar with Father David. He’s too young to have been a priest for long and Maggie didn’t know if he had the skills for confession at first. Like, did he need some sort of certificate or to be tenured or something? She didn’t trust the soft dark curls on his head (zero grays, she’s looked) and the smile lines that reach from the corners of his eyes and pull towards his ears. Father David has kind eyes. Hazel. They look brown from a distance but glow a soft green and yellow when the sunlight hits them. Stained glass. 

“Hi Father.” 

Maggie only ever worries about inconveniencing the priest when she can tell he had a long night. His hair would frizz around his head like an ugly halo and his collar would be tilted to the side. Today, he basically floats into the room. As he makes his way towards her, she can see each individual curl pronounced on top of his head. His hairline isn’t receding either, which is a miracle for a man in his late twenties. At least she thinks he’s in his twenties. Maybe early thirties. Her head tilts to the side while she guesses. Father David stops about ten feet in front of her. 

“The usual?” He asks. 

Maggie nods.

Parallel to him, past the pews, is the booth. She always sits on one side and he always sits on the other with nothing but a screen between them. Maggie likes that his face is shaped by the screen. The paleness of his cheeks come out in little ancient designs, something between a circle and a triangle. He looks ahead and sometimes she can hear him swallow or sigh, but never in judgement, which is rare for a religious person. Just silly, human noises. 

She makes her way towards the booth and the red leather seat awaiting her. Her heels create a dull thud on the stone, Father David turns around. 

“New shoes?” 

“Yes! I got them about a year ago but I couldn’t break them in.” 

“I could use a new pair myself.” They both take their places on each side of the confessional. Predictably, Father David’s silhouette is partially blocked by the screen. 

“How many days since your last confession?” He asks. Maggie’s breath instantly relaxes, she wonders vaguely if she has left an imprint on the seat from the way her body seems to settle into the cushion. 

“One.” There’s a silence in the air signaling her to continue. “I called my boss a bitch because she totally fucked me over with this promotion. She’s all like ‘Yeah, I’m a feminist, us women have to support each other.’ So I was thinking, like, she would give me the promotion because of girl power or feminism or whatever, but then she gave it to Travis. Travis!! Like, be serious.” 

Father David hesitates for a moment. “So…you called her a bitch to her face?” 

“No, but like behind her back which was way more sneaky. I grabbed dinner and drinks with my girls last night and was literally going off about her.” 

“Where do you work again, Maggie?” His voice is completely neutral and she’s grown used to its lack of inflection when taking confession. 

“A fitness studio but in the HR department. You’ve probably seen billboards for it. It’s like the new place all the New York influencers are obsessed with. And here’s the thing, it’s marketed towards women. Like, we have a Hannah Montana themed spin class.” 

“Wow. And she promoted this Travis over you?” 

“Mmhmm.”

“Bitch.” He says. “Anything else?” 

“Yeah,” Maggie replies, “So I was telling you we were at dinner-” 

“Where’d you go?” 

“This sushi place in Bushwick. Fuck, I forget the name. But the owner gave us free shots of sake so we all took three before going to the bar next door to keep the party going.” 

“Obviously. If you find the place, let me know.” Father David’s response times were quick, she barely released her breath before he answered. 

“Yeah definitely. But anyway I got like, super fucked up, and I’ve been going out with this girl for awhile and we’ve been talking about making it official and of course I want that like I’m literally in love with her.” Maggie’s breathless. 

“Okay.” Father David hesitates. 

“But we’re not official but I called her and told her I wanted to make it official-” 

“Maggie, I’m going to stop you.” He cuts her off. “If you think I’m one of those priests who’s telling you you’re going to hell, you’re wrong. It’s not my business who you love.” 

There’s a heaviness in Maggie that she can feel on her eyelids. Her shoulders droop down and she’s aware of every breath she takes. Swallowing, she feels that sting in the back of her throat. “Well, it should be.” Her voice is deeper than it was before, like there’s some sort of anchor in it that’s dragging her voice down to her feet. 

There’s a little window in front of her, so small you couldn’t see a person from the opposite side. But looking out, the morning sun is jumping through the window panes, illuminating an image of a woman standing at a tomb. Maggie doesn’t know who she is, she doesn’t try to. But she keeps her gaze locked on the figure and its hands moving up towards the sky emphatically as she waits for the priest’s response. 

“Why do you say that?” He’s curious and careful, by this point he knows her voice patterns, too. He’s never heard her like this and treads lightly. 

Her eyes glaze over and she chokes on a sob. Sweat pools under her armpits despite the cold of the room and the breeze outside. Her face is flushed hot and red. Maggie takes a final breath before speaking again. “She’s being subjected to me. That’s sin enough, to put her through that.”

Maggie doesn’t remember what he says next. She can only look at the woman and wonder if something important enough happened to her to make her look so intense. There had to be if it was etched into glass. When she sniffles, it echoes against the wooden box she’s found herself in. Maggie doesn't know how to pray, she still Googles the words to prayers. She’s used to hearing Father David tell her to say three Hail Mary’s and a Glory Be. That’s what she assumes he’s telling her to do when she leaves the confessional and walks into the morning light, blinding her as she pushes through the dark oak of the doors. 

“Maggie.” He says before she leaves. When she turns around he’s standing at the altar, which is now covered in panels of color and light. She pauses and awaits his response. Even from here she can see his smile, tilted up on the left side of his mouth. “What’s love without a little suffering?”

Carlyann (CC) Carey is a coffee addict/senior English major from St. John's University in Queens, NY. At school, CC is the Opinion Editor for a publication called The Torch and works as a Writing Center consultant. If you're looking for her, CC can always be found either running the streets of Brooklyn or reading a book on the N train.