Rock Writers’ Guild

Midday. The sidewalks of Montague Street teemed with people streaming from office buildings, escaping mailrooms, cubicle farms and corner suites in search of a satisfying lunch. Business still buzzed in frenzied conversations over BlackBerry’s and between clusters of suits. Others left commerce at their desks, laughing with friends and hoping to get a good seat at their favorite eating place.

Maria heard none of this. She was heedless of the traffic noise, the jostling of the crowd. Only the faint sea breeze from the East River several blocks away kept her focused. Passersby couldn’t see the sullen eyes hidden behind sunglasses. It’s easy to hide in a crowd, thought Maria, No one should know who I am.

Maria had secluded herself in her office the entire morning. Hours past unnoticed as Maria’s sole fixation was the view the floor to ceiling windows afforded her. An unobstructed vista of the Promenade, the river and lower Manhattan beyond spread out before her. The executive suite was a symbol of her success, but it brought more. Like her father, a hard bitten garment district worker, Maria was cold, ruthless and unfeeling. “Maria, you do what you have to do to make it,” Papa had said, “Don’t let them hurt you. Don’t let them use you.” Maria listened. The lying and the deceit became part of the game to protect what was hers, procure what she wanted. A little partying, a few lines, a little dalliance here and there added thrill to convention. More risk, more life, she reasoned.

             As Maria’s hazel eyes pondered the river, dark thoughts plagued her mind, as they had for the last three of her thirty-four years. The parties, the con games, the indiscretions, all left her numb, lifeless, dead. Her husband and children didn’t know her any longer. Was it all worth feeling so diminished, so empty? Was it really possible for someone to sell their soul? What have I done? Madre de Dios, what have I done?

She shook her head as if to clear it. But the path before her was plain. The decision was made. Maria rose from her leather chair and left the office tower. She never looked back.

              Maria headed toward the Promenade. The cold, watery embrace of the East River waited at the pier’s edge, far below street level, away from the inquisitive eye. Nameless wanderers may see, but would not mark her passing. Good, thought Maria, No grave, no headstone, no one will mourn…

               Mama…Within one block of descending to cheerless bliss, Maria stopped as if shot, looked about as if she heard something. Nothing. Still, a vague memory, resurrected by one more primal, found life in Maria’s mind.

“Mama… I can’t…do this…to you,” Maria said aloud. Turning, she doubled back, retracing her own footsteps, toward the business center. Maria pushed her dark brown hair back and hastened her steps as if to outpace an unseen pursuer. Was this another miscalculation, a case of injudicious intuition that would only add to the misery? She thrust the thought aside.

Maria slipped down Henry Street and followed the narrow sidewalk. Boutiques and bistros gave way to residences. She was grateful for the cool shade cast by row houses and trees along either side of the street. Near the end of the block, amidst lush copse of hickory and oak in a tiny courtyard was a church. Built of dark, ruddy, stone bricks of varying size, it stood taller than any structure nearby, a guardian of all that was held sacred by her patrons. Maria faced the church’s weathered, iron gate. This is a place for only good and decent people, she thought, I don’t belong here. Maria had seen this place before and noticed the signs: “First Presbyterian Church” and “Open for Prayer and Meditation.” Neither the signs nor the building so much as piqued her interest in the past. Now, something inexorable had brought her to an end and drew her to ponder the posted invitation.

          Maria looked at the formidable structure. Ivy clung to the outer edges and corners and extended nearly a third of its height. Although it was a warm day, Maria trembled. She wanted to turn and run but felt rooted to the concrete pavers. She pushed open the gate. It swung easily against her touch. Gazing at the aged oak doors at the top of the steps, it reminded her of the times that her mother had taken her to mass as a small child. Mama was fervent and prayed the rosary daily. Maria had watched Mama closely. Although they had nothing, Mama always found reason to smile, even through the tears. “Always trust in God, chica,” Mama had said, “Remember to pray always.” Maria loved her mother but never found a place for her mother’s faith. Then, God had seemed distant, irrelevant, even unreal. Now, as she stood in her own private hell, Maria wondered if Mama could have been right. “Oh, Mama, why didn’t I listen?”

            Yet here she stood in the sun dappled courtyard. The wind sighed through the leaves. Sparrows Maria didn’t hear before now sang in sweet accompaniment to an unfamiliar but gentle prompting. “Maria, do what you have to do to.” “Always trust in God, chica.” The words rushed unbidden from the past with the force of the convictions and love with which they were spoken. Two disparate voices from polar fields conspired to speak to her as one. One voice. A voice greater that the sum of its ethereal parts whispered wordless volumes and touched her. “Is there a way out of the mess I’ve made?” There it was. Maria finally admitted it. She found the one who had brought her so low –herself. Strength welled up from the edges of her life. Even this place spoke to her. Its very age, marked by hardy ivy, the wind and rain swept doors, the beaten iron, and the imposing stone façade spoke of – something, Maria had no name for it - that transcended time and bared her pitiable attempts to mitigate it for a moment’s pleasure, a broken crock of useless things. No longer did Maria see utter despair. She felt the stirrings of something here that had become totally foreign to her: hope.

              This was not a Catholic church. Maria didn’t care. There was something here. Maybe a priest would help. Was there a priest here? Was anyone here? She didn’t know. I have to do this, she determined, I know this is right. Maria stowed her sunglasses and pursed her lips. She took a deep breath, mounted the steps and went inside.