Light was diffusing through Saint Peter's body.

He stared at me as I sat on the pew with Father Caroll beside me, just like everybody else when they see me without my hood. The sunlight he was shining on me was an air-raid spotlight brushing up against the pregnant bellies of biplanes. Saint Peter was curious, I knew. He was wondering how God could have made such a grievous error in shaping one of his children in his own image. Questioning, the stained-glass light tugged at my face to make sure it was real (and not a mask), like children sitting on the laps of mall Santas and yanking on their fake beards.

I sat beside Father Caroll with my hands clenched into fists and my jaw welded shut.

I hate the way his face is scrubbed so clean so that it shines like the crown of a baby making his way out of the womb. I hate how his eyes are glassy and empty and ice. I hate how words came out of his mouth, spilling into my hands, all useless and empty.

He said, “There's always a reason. There's always a cause. God doesn't exercise his hand randomly, he moves with a purpose. He punishes the sinners and lifts up the righteous.”

“I'm not a sinner.”

Father Caroll's forehead wrinkles up like used Kleenex and he clears his throat and leans forward. “That's right, Charlie. You're on the road to repentance. With work, any one can be admitted into his kingdom, but first they have to come to terms with their past. I'm sure you're aware of Cain, Charlie. He killed his brother out of jealousy and when God came to him he was completely without any kind of sorrow or penitence. He was given a curse. His skin was darkened.”

Father Caroll paused a moment to let the story sink in.

I felt my insides burning up like Buddhist monks soaked in kerosene and sitting cross-legged in Saigon streets.

I was Cain.

I was a sinner.

And I couldn't decide whether the feeling pounding on the walls of my heart was hate or shame.

Caroll said, “The unrighteous are punished, Charlie. Sometimes physically, sometimes with trials and tribulations. If you would tell me where things went wrong, where you have sinned in your past, I can help you. I can guide you on your path to redemption and healing.”

“I can't be healed.”

“With God, anything is possible.”

I squeezed my fists together tighter. “I don't need anyone's help.”

“It's that attitude that makes Satan smile, Charl – ”

I stood.

Father Caroll's mouth was still open and his eyes were vacant and I punched him so hard that he almost fell over the other side of the pew.

And then I was running. My feet against the ground and echoing off of the walls were like tired men and women splatting against the pavement outside high-riser doors. I ran as hard as I could and burst through the doors of the cathedral and slapped my face and crop-dusted my eyelashes with frost.

As I ran, I stirred up dead leaves that swirled behind me the same way the pages of burning books dance in the air as they are French-kissed by tongues of fire.

It isn't Satan smiling at me.

It's Saint Peter.

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The car was pleading with them. Begging for mercy like black slaves begging for a little water and sleep. Its engine stuttered and coughed and bleeding menstrual cycle oil on the street as Joseph and Liesel throttled it along the road. Charlie was sitting in the back with the smell of hard-working American sweat and spilled gin, trying to look as small and as invisible as possible.

His face throbbed.

It was sore from all of the eyes in the hospital rubbing their fingers all over it, like a blind woman memorizing the features on the face of her daughter. He didn't dare look out the window. He didn't dare look at the passing cars.

Charlie kept his head down, his legs pressed tightly together, and tried to think of things other than Liesel and Joseph and the people outside the car he imagined were probably pointing and gasping. He thought about the hospital. He thought about the crippled girl he had never met. He thought about how his mother's voice would probably wander around restless now that he was gone whispering into the ears of other little boys and asking them if there name was,

“Charlie.”

Charlie's eyes flickered up to the passenger's seat.

“That's your name, right?” Liesel asked.

“Yes.”

“There are a few rules we need to take care of up front, alright? First, it's 'yes, ma'am'. Second, I could care the hell less what the doctor says about your self-esteem and all that crap, but we're still going to have to keep your face hidden with a mask. I can't be seen in public with a radiation victim beside me, God give mercy. Third...”

She paused.

And then, “Let's just keep a running list, OK?”

Charlie nodded.

“Yes ma'am,” he said.

***

Coughing like little kids smoking a cigarette for their first time, the car died in front of a house on a decaying suburban street. Joseph took the key out of the ignition and Liesel opened her door and stepped onto the street.

The grass aged as her shoes crushed it.

Joseph opened the passenger door and waited as Charlie slid out of his seat and onto the pavement. Charlie glanced at the rows of houses, all wedged together like men in orange jumpsuits at a suspect line-up with yards that were unshaved five o'clock shadows.

Mailboxes stuck their tongues out at Charlie as Liesel hid him against the glare of the living windows of the houses across the street and ushered him up to the front door of their home. The building slouched. It looked to Charlie like it might slump over onto the street at any time.

Charlie wondered if Liesel had a garden in the backyard.

With tulips.

And poppies sprinkled with cigarette ashes.

***

Except for a statue of the crucified Christ, the walls of the living room were completely naked.

They looked like the thighs of nuns who had their skin wrapped up in black habits and away from the sun for years in convents.

Liesel took Charlie's jacket and hung it up next to hers and Joseph stepped back outside with his shoulders all hunched up and he sat down on the steps, with an unlit cigarette between his lips. With her mouth pinched, Liesel told Charlie to stay where he was and wait for a second as she looked for something they could use to hide his face.

Her steps as she walked down the hall caused the house to shudder a little psychics dealing out unfavorable tarot cards.

Even though his eyes were upturned toward heaven as blood trickled down his face and between his fingers and toes, Charlie could tell that the statue of Christ was watching him. Mother had talked about this man on the cross before. And when she spoke of him she blended hope and love and redemption in with his name.

The expression of the man hanging on the wall was not one of love and hope.

It made Charlie feel dirty.

Broken.

Empty.

His piety made the naked nuns hide their faces.

Charlie's insides felt as if they were being stomped on by the feet of men making grape clusters into wine and he sat on a ratty couch with springs that collapsed like wheezing accordions. The doctor said that these people were his parents now. He said that this home was his now. He had told Charlie that his mother and father had shriveled up when the sky fell and that his old home – with all the poppies and tulips – had been shaved off of the face of the earth, like hair buzzed off of the heads of new prison inmates.

Everything was brand new.

And everything was dead.

Where are you, mom?

The Christ statue nailed to Liesel and Joseph's wall watched as Charlie's question drifted up to heaven and blood cried down his face.