Chapter 6

Everything changes.

The city in June contrasted starkly to February. Instead of a blanket of snow, blades of emerald grass reflected the warmer sunshine. Instead of chickadees, robins chirped, greeting the late spring. Trees displayed new buds and cherry blossoms littered lawns. Life exploded anew.

Psyche walked casually down abandoned sidewalks as the sun kissed the western horizon. The air retained the warmth of the day, but an evening chill threatened to descend. Silhouetted by fiery purple and golden cotton, St. Joseph’s spire stretched towards beckoning heavens. A well-groomed tiny cemetery rested beside the church, surrounded by ebony wrought iron fencing. After travelling all day, her eyelids scratched insistently across her eyeballs, demanding jet-lagged rest, yet her whirling mind refused to allow sleep. And so she walked, hoping for exhaustion, or at least enlightenment.

Occasional fellow pedestrians sometimes stopped and stared, some pointing in her direction, whispering. She ignored the attention, preferring to concentrate on simply enjoying the spring air filling her lungs, the robins hunting through lush lawns, and squirrels chasing across boulevards and oaks.

Choral singing teased her ears as she passed St. Joseph’s.

Like a Siren, the music called to Psyche. Hoping she wouldn’t distract the service, Psyche climbed the steps to the modern glass doors, pulled them open, and stepped inside.

Inside St. Joseph’s, incense tickled her nose. Beyond the glass doors and vestibule, heavy oaken doors led to the inner worship. Psyche had not attended church since she had been a child, doubts and unanswered questions driving her from the discomfort of hardwood pews.

A choir sang familiar hymns, the notes inviting and insistent.

In an exhausted daze, Psyche silently entered the church, automatically dipping her fingers into the font and touching her forehead. A priest busied at the altar, preparing the Eucharist during the hymns. Half-hearted community voices floated dutifully from the small congregation to join with the piano and choir. Including the priest, a few heads curiously turned at her late entrance to the sacred chamber, but immediately retreated to the service.

The scents and atmosphere returned Psyche to a frugal but happy childhood.

She missed Aglaura.

Automatically genuflecting, Psyche slid into the last pew and bowed her head. By rote, she reached for the hymnal, thumbing to the correct psalm. After a moment, Psyche added her soprano to the music filling the air.

In the dream, she stood barefoot and shivering in the February snow. Only a thin studio robe encased her otherwise naked skin, a satin belt knotted loosely at her navel. She needed to run, to catch the golden hair moving away from her into the distance, melting into a crowd of pedestrians. Her legs refused to obey the commands of her mind, her bare feet frozen to the sidewalk.

She tried to scream, but a strange paralysis grasped her throat, choking her.

Cupid! Please!

Please. I didn’t fuck him. I swear I didn’t.

Please. Come. Back?

A trembling hand touched her shoulder, startling her awake, completely disoriented. She blinked furiously, staring at an unfamiliar high-arched wooden ceiling. Lazy teak blades rotated above, circulating stale air. The scent of incense assaulted her nose. Her butt, resting upon unyielding worn oak, protested under her. The hand withdrew from her shoulder.

“Are you all right, my child?”

Raising her head, her neck muscles objecting, Psyche attempted to focus her eyes. Remnants of the dream haunted her. The soles of her feet and pads of her toes burned where February snow had kissed them. Cold seeped into her bare forearms and denim-clad thighs. Her breasts ached beneath the thin fabric of the AC/DC concert t-shirt. Her fingers brushed loose hair from her face as she straightened.

An older man stood at the base of her pew, a concerned expression gracing his face. He wore a full beard. A priestly robe draped his thin shoulders, but no white collar circled his throat. Peeking between the folds of the robes, she thought she could detect tie-dye. Seeming totally out of place, the man held a fedora in his left hand, brushing against his thigh.

She struggled to find words.

“What?”

“Are you all right, my child?” the man repeated. His voice wavered a little, but exuded kindness, patience, and concern.

The question, while superficially simple, begged a complex answer.

She had poured a few thousand dollars’ worth of cognac over a man’s head this morning, in a hotel lobby thousands of kilometres from here. She had given away her engagement ring to a street urchin outside of a museum housing a 400-year-old warship. She had walked away from her only sibling. She had walked away from a charmed life.

And Cupid was gone.

She was utterly alone for the first time in her life. Except for a brief night with a scarred woman, she had always been alone, she supposed, even when surrounded by people.

“I think so, Father,” she mumbled uncertainly.

He looked at her skeptically. His eyes concealed if he recognized her or not. If he recognized her, she doubted somehow he would pester her for a selfie. Her nerves relaxed.

After a pause, he genuflected and entered the pew directly in front of her, twisting around and resting his age-spotted arm on the backrest. He gazed at Psyche.

“I’m not a priest,” he said. “I’m the deacon around this church.”

She nodded in understanding. Even while she had not attended church for more than a decade, she remembered the difference between a deacon and a priest. The lack of collar should have immediately provided the first clue.

Upon glancing about the worship chamber, she discovered it empty; only she and the deacon populated the large space. Perhaps she had slept longer than she thought. Damn jet lag.

After waiting for a moment for Psyche to awaken fully, he continued.

“I haven’t seen you here before.” His eyes remained unreadable if he knew her from perfume advertisements. Of course, deacons rarely wore perfume, so her anonymity might remain intact.

“I lapsed years ago, father ... um ... deacon. When I walked past, I heard the choir.”

His lips curled in an easy smile at her stumbling over his title.

He nodded.

“It was a lovely service,” she added quickly. Of course, that she fell asleep during the sermon contrasted to her words. She hoped she hadn’t snored.

“It was long and boring, but thank you for saying that. Was the choir the only reason you wandered into this church, my child?”

Why else would she have walked into this place?

“I don’t believe in gods,” she said. Glancing about the church, she wondered if lightning might find and strike her.

The deacon nodded contemplatively.

“We welcome all lost sheep, child. God believes you exist and that will have to be enough for this evening.”

“It’s late,” Psyche replied. “I should let you lock up.”

She pushed herself to her feet.

“Who’s Cupid?” the deacon asked pointedly.

Psyche lowered herself back into the pew. Her buttocks screamed at her. At the mention of the name, her heart accelerated in her chest.

“Do you know Cupid? Where she might be?”

The deacon chuckled kindly. “Child, you called her name twice while you slept. I don’t know this Cupid. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

“Who is she?”

Psyche sighed.

The touch of Walter’s fingers crawled across her skin, cupping her breasts, squeezing her, trailing over her shoulder, down her spine, caressing her ass through the thin robe. Cupid’s fingers wandered more pleasantly over her breasts, her nipples, her ears, her throat, and between her legs. But Walter’s fingers out-duelled Cupid’s and Cupid had rightly run, even if it was a misunderstanding, of sorts.

Perhaps she ought to prudently avoid supplying all the details here.

“I lost her. I left to search for her.”

“You thought she would be in the congregation?”

Psyche shook her head.

“No. The choir truly beckoned me.”

“The hymns inspired tonight,” the deacon remarked. After a moment, he continued, “Do you know where to find this Cupid? How to even find her?”

“I have no idea. But I have to try.”

“Redemption?”

The elderly deacon nodded sagely.

“Redemption. Sometimes, around here, our priest assigns far too many Hail Marys.”

“So, I visit a little box, confess my sins, recite a bunch of Hail Marys, and magically, my lost friend returns?”

The deacon chuckled. “Life would be so much easier if t’were it worked like that, wouldn’t it, my child?”

Psyche raised her eyes to examine the placidly rotating blades high above.

“I’ve given up so much,” she spoke towards the fans. She regretted none of it. Not the cognac. Not the ring. Not even her sister, although Aglaura weighed on her mind.

The deacon remained silent for a while. Then he spoke reassuringly.

“Sometimes, atonement is a journey. Perhaps you’ve only taken the first steps?”

“I need to find myself before I’m worthy of finding her?”

The deacon shrugged his thin shoulders. She could see it in his eyes; he recognized her. More than half his congregation likely recognized her. Beyond that shadow deep in his hazel eyes, he betrayed no other sign.

“I don’t know you, my child. Every person finds their own path, their footsteps indenting the shifting sands.”

Destiny ambushes. Destiny insists.

She lowered her chin to gaze at the man skeptically.

“And Jesus won’t abandon me in my time of need? If I pray enough? He’ll pick me up and carry me across that beach?” She’d seen the inspirational poster hanging prominently in the vestibule.

The old deacon shook his head morosely.

“There are spirits of this world beyond our faith,” he said, surprisingly. “Your atonement, your redemption, is purely your own. He assists those who help themselves.” He reached out with a shaky arm and touched Psyche’s hand. “Don’t rely on gods to reveal your path.”

With that, the old man pushed himself shakily to his feet, supporting his weight on the back of the pew. Picking up the battered fedora from the seat, he paused at the edge of her pew.

“At least you aren’t looking for holy water,” he mused cryptically. Bowing his head, his fingers wandered across his torso in the sign of a cross, the gesture meaning little to Psyche. “Find your atonement and redemption shall return her to you.”

Would it be enough?

“Thank you, deacon,” she murmured. It costs nothing to be polite.

As the elderly clergy meandered unsteadily down the processional aisle, she discerned a faint on-key whistling, fading as he shuffled away.

Joy to the world. All the boys and girls...

As Psyche entered the empty vestibule, she noted a dusty, padlocked box perched on an unsteady veneered table set on spindly, tarnished chrome legs. A neat hand-lettered sign hung askew above the box.

Food bank donations.

Please contribute as if you were hungry.

Thank you for your generosity.

Oh, Walter and Aglaura would cringe. But they both resided on the other side of the Atlantic, consuming caviar and drinking Dom Perignon. Neither of them stood in an empty, warm church, hymns resonating in their ears.

She fished a brown bill from her modest purse. Sir Robert Borden stared up at her.

Nodding in satisfaction, she folded the paper and inserted the currency into the slot.

Whistling a familiar tune lamenting a wayward bullfrog, she pushed through the glass doors and descended the steps to the abandoned sidewalk. The late afternoon sun had departed to below the western horizon, leaving only the moon and flickering streetlights to accompany her short walk back to her modest hotel. A chill brushed her bare arms, raising gooseflesh. The night swallowed her steady footfalls.

The neon cup spewed flickering steam into the morning air. The somewhat gaudy glowing signage remained the same: The Lonely Heart Café.

And she definitely owned a lonely, aching heart.

Psyche’s heart raced in her chest as she steadily approached. Her Adidas raised sharp footfalls against the cement of the sidewalk, unperturbed by snow and ice. On Valentine’s, the last time she had visited here, a virginal dusting of snow had foreshadowed an icy departure. Psyche didn’t believe in gods, but she prayed anyway.

Please. Please. Please. Let her be here. Let me explain. Please.

She passed an older, homeless man, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, dozing beside a neighbouring entranceway. His grizzled, boney features seemed peaceful in his carefree slumber. In some ways, his blanket reminded Psyche of the homeless Stockholm girl, Agnetha. She hoped the girl had enjoyed her shower, her comfortable king, and eaten some decent food, but she feared she’d never really know.

Psyche paused as she approached. If Cupid still worked behind that counter, what would she say? What could Psyche say?

She nearly turned on her heel to walk past the sleeping man and return to the safety of her hotel. A fool’s errand. Even if Cupid were, by some miracle, at the counter, would she even recognize Psyche?

Cupid had asked only one concession from her. One lousy concession.

I didn’t fuck him! I swear I didn’t. Even when I wore his beautiful ring. I didn’t fuck him!

Destiny is a harsh mistress.

Ages ago, someone had taped a faded Help Wanted sign to the inside of the window below the café’s hours. A corner of the sign curled, obscuring the Wanted.

Gathering her resolve, Psyche inhaled deeply, then released her breath in a long exhalation. With no further hesitation, she grasped the handle and pulled open the door. Chimes jingled as she stepped inside.

An athletic, fit woman stood behind the counter, her long blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders to the middle of her back. Green straps of her work apron tied in a neat bow at the small of her back.

Psyche’s heart jackhammered in her chest. Butterflies chased in her stomach. She strode to the counter, Cupid’s name poised on her lips.

The barista turned and smiled a friendly greeting.

“What can I get for you, sugar?”

While the body type and hair matched from behind, this woman possessed chocolate brown eyes and puffier cheeks. Not Cupid.

Psyche blinked in surprise. Hot tears of disappointment brimmed without her consent. Her heart descended from her throat back into her chest, but remained thumping, her pulse ringing insistently in her ears.

“Are you okay, sugar?”

Psyche nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Can I get something for you? A latte maybe? You look like a latte girl.”

Psyche urged her tongue into motion.

“You’re not Cupid,” she reported weakly. Even to her own ears, the statement rang discordantly, out of place, out of time. Obvious.

For a moment, the barista appeared confused, but then recovered quickly.

“No, I’m not Cupid, sugar. I don’t know who that is. I’m Audra.”

Psyche gathered in her breath. Too much to hope for.

“She used to work here,” Psyche said ruefully.

“I’ve only worked here for two weeks,” Audra said. “We’re a little short of staff.”

Psyche nodded. She willed her heart to return to a normal rhythm and forced her tears to retreat.

“I’ll have an Americano, please,” Psyche said with a sigh.

“Pretty lady? Spare change?” The voice rang gravelly from below as she passed.

She glanced down. The older man gazed up at her, his eyes bright and focused. In an earlier life, she likely would have ignored the man and continued down the sidewalk. Walter’s gruff voice echoed in her ears. He’ll only fucking drink any change you give him.

Shut up, Walter.

Psyche paused her stride and faced the entrance. She crouched.

“You sleep here?” she asked.

The man smiled toothily. Ebony gaps appeared between his stained teeth. At one point, the broken smile might have repulsed her, but now she found it charming. The man nodded in response.