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Barbara sweeps Autumn’s dirt and shattered leaves out from under the pews. The broom handle twists tiny splinters into her palm.
The cathedral door creaks open, then shuts.
She trains her eyes on the many candles casting willowy shadows across the walls.
“We missed you at confession today.”
“You shouldn’t speak for others.”
“Usually only a handful of people show, but today the line went out the door—”
“And halfway down the steps, I know. I saw.”
Barbara turns around. Rosaria sits in the lonely pew pushed against the far back wall. Instead of pinching a cigarette between her fingers, she idly weaves together dandelion weeds.
Barbara says, “There was an elderly man today. He confessed the most unusual things.”
Rosaria spares her a glance.
“He asked what becomes of those who are cast into Tartarus. What becomes of those who immerse themselves in sin.”
“And what did you tell him?”
Barbara shakes her head.
“Did he give you trouble?”
Barbara shakes her head. Then, she says, “Did you know that fish have teeth?”
“Come here. Show me your hands.”
Barbara tucks her broom to the side, then holds her palms out. Rosaria cradles them, smooths her fingers across Barbara’s palms, and plucks out the splinters she feels.
“Fish do have teeth,” Barbara says. “Some have teeth far back in their throats, while others have teeth in their jaws, just like a human.”
Rosaria’s hand goes to Barbara’s cheek and smooths over a dark patch beneath her eye. She leads Barbara to the lonely pew pushed against the far back wall. They sit. Barbara shoves her face into Rosaria’s shoulder.
“Tell me about your father,” Barbara says.
“There isn’t much to tell.”
“What kind of person was he?”
“His qualities fluctuated with his moods. He taught me how to make the stains on my hands disappear.”
Barbara shifts slightly to take Rosaria’s arm. “Some of my stains are still there.”
“When I held your hands, I didn’t notice any stains. Your hands are clean.”
“The stains bother me most during the night. They pulse and drip over my blankets and pillow; I can’t sleep.”
Rosaria’s hand goes to Barbara’s cheek and comes away damp. Barbara turns her face into her hand and mumbles, “Tell me about your mother.”
“She was the cook. I was adept with knives, so she kept me around.”
“What kind of person was she?”
“Laconic. She taught me that darkness is nothing worth fearing.”
Barbara holds her breath. Rosaria’s hand is frigid on her cheek.
Rosaria asks, “Did that old man confess anything else?”
“Fish have teeth.”
“Aside from that.”
“Do you think the fish’s prey knows that fish have teeth?”
“Depends on the size of the fish.”
“What if it was a small fish? A meek one? What if it swam up to you, and you never knew it had a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth until it took a gaping bite out of your side.”
Rosaria runs her hand over Barbara’s head. “There’s a reason that the small, meek fish doesn’t open its mouth for just any prey.”
“Would it scare everything else away?”
“It would lose the element of surprise. The unassuming predator’s strength is found in its disguise.”
“Twenty-five years ago, the old man murdered his infant daughter.” Barbara’s voice shook, “He drowned her. Then he scattered her body across the ocean.”
Rosaria stares down at Barbara and says nothing.
“He said that her little hand came crawling back to him just three days ago. It was picked clean.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you think that his hands have blisters?”
Rosaria rests her hands on Barbara’s shoulders. “No.”
“What about stains?”
“I don’t know.”
“He came to ask for acceptance, not forgiveness.”
“So, he still grips her neck. After twenty-five years, his grip has not lessened.”
“Would Barbatos forgive such a tenacious man?”
Rosaria touches the rosary beads snaked around Barbara’s neck. “Would you?”
Barbara is silent.
“Forgiveness is fickle,” Rosaria says. “It’s both a word and a peace of mind. Those with the blackest of hearts, those who have committed the most abysmal of deeds, latch onto this ‘forgiveness’ as if it’s enough to absolve them of their past.”
“But he asked for acceptance.”
“I should wonder why, after twenty-five years, he chooses now to demand acceptance.”
Barbara says nothing. Instead, she looks at Rosaria’s hands, at the metal claws that envelop her fingers. The metal is clean. It reflects the dim candlelight. How much blood would it take to rust such fine metal? Had those claws ever known a home around a throat?
“How did you make the blisters on your hands fade?” Barbara asks.
“Some disappeared with time. Others refused to shrink away on their own, so I wore gloves to hide them from the world. Can you see the scars?”
“I can’t.”
“Then you’re not looking close enough.” Rosaria takes a breath. “Your blisters will disappear with time, as mine have. The stains will fade, too.”
“Do you think I should wear gloves?”
Rosaria shook her head. “Gloves will only make matters worse.”
Barbara takes Rosaria’s hand and touches at the soft cloth that covers it, feels the long and slender fingers underneath, roams across the expanse of Rosaria’s open palm, and dips her thumb over the undulations of Rosaria’s knuckles. She tries to imagine the bulbous blisters, the weeping cavities, the desiccated stains, but—
“Skin rots if it cannot breathe. Secrets fester in shame and guilt if kept hidden away.” Rosaria says.
“Will you tell me a secret, then?”
Rosaria tugs her gloves up, then stands. She offers a hand to Barbara, who takes it.
“Maybe another day.”