‘Jesus, would you look at her, what is she like?’
‘You know I can’t see anyone from this angle, mam. I’ve got to keep looking up, keep imploring me da to save me from myself, you know the drill,’ Jesus answers, his marble arms heavy with exhaustion.
‘She must have a weakness for the drink, that must be it.’
‘Ah mam, we’ve talked about this.’ So often he’s told her, judge not others lest ye be judged, and she’d answer What now? like it was the first time they’d had that particular conversation. ‘Don’t be trash-talking, mam. How would you feel if it was you?’
‘If I was anything like yer one, I’d be feeling woozy on me feet and wondering where me shoes were,’ she says, satisfaction in her voice at having bested him. ‘You’re looking pale, love, you need to get out in the fresh air a bit more.’ She cackles at her own joke, and Jesus rolls his marble eyes.
‘Who are we even looking at?’ Jesus asks.
‘Nora O’Sullivan from down the terraces,’ she replies, voice tight.
So that was it. Nora O’Sullivan. She must be some age now, traipsing into the church Wednesdays and Fridays and of course every Sunday. Doing the flowers for the alter. Bringing some homemade fruit cake for Fr Declan in her bag. Bringing the stories of her failing marriage, her husband’s drinking, her son’s slip into petty criminality, her daughter’s hasty getaway once she turned eighteen. His mam’s blank limbs and stone garments had nothing to rival Nora O’Sullivan’s needs. Not even back in the day when the coal-burning had coated her with soot, when the city had coated her with grime, when that pigeon shat on her head and she had to just sit there with the grey-white slime oozing down her forehead. These were not the kind of problems Fr Declan attended to. Occasionally, he sent someone out with a bucket of soapy water to scrub them down, but they always gave up so soon, too soon, dirt left smeared on their bodies.
‘She isn’t a patch on you, mam,’ Jesus says. God, he’d love to give her a hug.
‘Thanks, love. I shouldn’t complain. I’ll offer it up.’
‘He’s lucky to have you here,’ he says, but he knows it’s too much, too far. That words can’t heal a stone heart, that love doesn’t always win.
