What She Held

Justin always admired the stained glass window high in the church wall. A true work of art, but old. No one remembered who designed it. Rumor held he was probably a contemporary of Tiffany or one of the other geniuses of a century ago. Maybe Tiffany himself.

He grew up attending church with his mother. Each Sunday, he studied its colorful scene. His childish imagination had him believing it studied him back.

The ornate image showed a fair young woman kneeling, with her hand out. Her eyes gazed into the heavens with a hopeful expression. Behind her hand, a fountain flowed and flowers filled the background. Justin always marveled at the intricacy of the design. The background stood in soft focus, as if in a photograph. The woman’s outstretched hand intercepted the fountain’s arching water spout. What genius could pour molten glass and use each element of the picture to guide the eye to the woman’s face?

The picture was entitled, ‘Supplication.’ But Justin thought it should be ‘Offering.’ Whether her outstretched hand was empty, or not, made the difference. His mother, weary of questions, said the title determined the answer.

Even now, in his late teens, Justin loved looking at it. But old Finney, the head custodian, kept him too busy for ‘such frivolities.’ Finney kept him sweeping the church floor, ensuring the pews had hymnals, replenishing the devotionals, and preparing for each day’s Mass. He also helped with the school maintenance.

He didn’t dust the statues of saints or tend to the altar. Finney thought him too young for such elevated responsibilities. Father Clare, the deacons, and Finney did that.

Still, Justin couldn’t pass by that magnificent window without basking in its rich beauty. Each day, light brought it to life and colorfully lit different parts of the nave. It changed by the season, the hour, and the minute.

Of course, there were legends. The church was hundreds of years old, the window, merely a century or two. With age comes the burden of superstition and mystery. Some miracle or another, always unattested, would always get mentioned.

Justin heard the window was haunted. That made no sense. Why would a ghost haunt a window? In a church, yet. Though not immune to romantic fantasy, he dismissed that out of hand.

Justin’s mother frowned on his working for ‘that old drunk’ Finney. She warned him to stick to his chores and not get ‘too close.’ He heard her tell Mrs. Patrick, over the back fence, Finney ‘killed his wife.’

If true, Justin reasoned, his wife must have been quite a piece of work. For old Finney never spent a day in jail for anything. Severe when doling out the work, and his hawkeyed attention to detail earned him fear and respect. But no one called him unfair.

Sometimes, Justin would find him kneeling, head bowed, near the tabernacle. Once, he saw Finney’s shoulders shaking with sobs. Whatever the business or urgency, Justin wouldn’t interrupt then. 

They lived where jobs ran scarce, so Justin’s mother granted he could do worse than spend time in church. She hoped ‘some good would rub onto him.’

Justin usually cut through the church going to the rectory. He paused to look at ‘Supplication’ and sensed a change. The woman’s eyes appeared directed toward him, not the heavens. When he shifted side to side her eyes followed.

Justin ran to find Finney. He found him trimming a tree in the garden. Finney never liked an interruption. But due to Justin’s urgency, he followed, grumbling into the church.

“What crisis do you have for me?”

Justin pointed. “Look at the woman, Finney. See her eyes?”

“You think she needs glasses, now? Or a cane?”

“Don’t you see? She’s looking at us…” He paused, embarrassed. The woman in the window gazed, as usual, into the heavens.

 Justin tried explaining but Finney stopped him.

“It’s alright, boy. I’ve heard it all before. If you ever see her dancing a jig, come get me. The rest is just silliness. Trick of the eye, boy.”

“But…”

“If you’re going to chat, do it on your own time. The day is fading.” He returned to the garden.

“But I saw her…”

“So many stories told about that tart. It’s said if she favors you, she winks.” He looked wryly at Justin.

“She didn’t wink. But…”

Finney held up his hand and made a sad face. “Justin, I need to finish this, now. Have you nothing to do?”

“Yes, sir. Can I go?” Finney could pile it on when provoked.

He waved him off. “Get busy…”

Justin returned through the church to see the woman in the window as always. He figured he’d imagined it. ‘The shifting branches of trees and the sun’s movement fooled me.’ He walked on. ‘But it sure looked real…’

A few days later, he passed by Finney talking with Father Clare. Finney caught his eye and said, “I was telling the Father about your girlfriend, Justin.” They smiled as Finney cocked his head toward the window.

Fr. Clare said, “She is a beauty. And it’s spring. Seems the boys always take a fancy to her when the sap starts flowing.” They burst into laughter. Finney patted his shoulder. Justin nodded politely and went about his business.

But late that day, Justin was startled again. Walking by the window, it appeared the woman now looked down into the garden.

‘I must be half-soaked.’ He kept his vision to himself.

That night he pondered the sight. For years, he’d watched that window and it never moved. Was she, or something, trying to communicate? But what? Who? And why now?

Regardless anyone’s doubts, Justin knew no breezy leaves had caused it. He also knew this was his secret, alone.

It happened again a few days later. But he could not have predicted this strange wrinkle. The sun shone brightly, but the window remained in shadow. Yet, a yellow glint came off the woman’s hand which Justin had never seen. The mystery lay not only in the glint, but the source of the light? It had to be coming from the garden.

He ran out of the church and scanned the shady area. Statues of saints stood surrounded by lush flowering bushes and trees.

In one quiet corner sat a statue of a woman resting on a stone. Her hand extended toward the fountain flowing into a pool at her feet. The fountain gurgled. The marble had weathered. Lichens had mottled it. Compared to the more artistic sculptures standing nearby, it almost seemed an afterthought.

But from where came the glint? He had a clear view of the window. He realized this statue echoed the stained glass woman above.

He stepped onto the basin’s edge, and stretching, peered into her hand. Nestled amidst dry leaves and twigs, as if someone had just placed it on her palm, rested a gold wedding band. He leaned out to retrieve it. He wobbled, fumbled and almost dropped it into the water. But he regained his balance and kept dry. He glanced around to see if anyone watched his antics.

Sitting on the lip of the pool, he examined the ring. Inscribed within were the letters, K.F. ~ P.F. The statue of the woman stared impassively. He felt so strange.

Justin wrapped the ring in his handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket. He returned to his daily routine.

After lunch, Finney approached him with some new task. Justin remembered the ring.

“I have a question, Mr. Finney.”

“What? Girlfriend troubling you again?” Finney glanced at the window.

“Not exactly, no. But do you know anyone with the initials, K.F or P.F?”

Justin stepped back at the fierce look Finney gave him. “I’m P.F. I’m Paul. What do you know about it?”

Justin reached for his handkerchief. “I don’t know anything. But I found something.” He held up the ring.

“What did you find?” Finney squinted to see the inscription. He gave Justin a flinty look. “What are you about? Where did you get this?”

“I found it, Fin. I thought you might…”

“Where? Where was it?”

Justin started toward the garden. “I’ll show you…”

Finney passed him and Justin ran to keep up. Finney stood at the fountain where he found the ring, when Justin caught up.

Finney’s expression shifted from anger to fear to sorrow in a moment. He grabbed Justin by the shoulders and began to shake him. They yelled over each other.

“Tell me! Tell me!”

“It was here! Here!”

Finney released him. He sat heavily on the pool’s edge and stared at the ring. “Here’s where we’d sit.”

“Mr. Finney, I’m sorry. I didn’t... I didn’t mean to upset you.” He pointed. “I found it there. In her hand.”

Finney didn’t respond. He began to sob as he kissed the ring. “Katie… Oh, my Kate.” He rocked side to side. “I’m so sorry… Where have you gone?”

Justin stood by. After a time, Finney looked up, his face wet.

“I was out. I didn’t know. By my return, it was too late. She’d already gone.” He looked at the ring. “We couldn’t even say goodbye.” His frame wracked with sobs.

Justin stood helplessly by. He wished Fr. Clare would come. Anyone.

Finney held the ring. “This is all I have. What did I do? Who can forgive me?”

Justin shook his head. “Forgive yourself.” Finney gave him a blank look. Justin gestured to their surroundings. “You spend all your time here. From where do you think forgiveness comes?”

Finney stared without speaking. The fountain gurgled. Birds chirped. After a few minutes, he looked at Justin.

“I’m keeping you from your chores, son. Go on.” Justin stepped away. “And Justin… thanks.”

They nodded and Justin left him to his thoughts.

The ring wasn’t mentioned again. But Finney’s mood lightened. He laughed more easily and his manner eased. Fr. Clare authorized Justin’s altar duty, and a small raise.

The woman in the window returned to her supplication.