Character Study: Josette

Photo by Christopher Campbell on Unsplash

I’ve gone to church on Sunday for 18 years.

My parents were Catholic. They named each of their nine children after saints. I was named after St. Joseph, but, since I turned out to be a girl, they changed my name from Joseph to Josette.

I remember sitting in the back seat of our Chevy, four kids across the seat, each with a kid in their lap. Mom held the baby in the front passenger seat while Dad drove. When we got to church, we filed out of the car like sardines that had been packed tightly, but then loosened out of the can one at a time.

Our family always sat in the right third row from the front. Nobody was ever there before us because we got to church early. Early enough for boredom to set in before Mass even started.

I swung my Mary Jane shoes under the pew and out in front of me like a swing. I opened the back of the prayer book and read the words of the songs as if they were poems.

I inspected the architecture and décor of the interior: the brown confessional doors with red lights over them; the blue carpet trailing up the middle aisle like a wide strip of the sky; the podium where the readers stood; the steps to the altar also carpeted in blue; the altar covered with a starched white linen cloth; the silver candlesticks that held thick yellow candles. I even stared at the statues of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus that stood to the sides of the altar. Mary looked like a contented mother. Joseph seemed a little distracted as chubby Jesus gazed up to the ceiling.

On Good Friday, Sister Genevieve took our class to the church to participate in the Stations of the Cross. This was a pre-Easter ritual that involved the priest visiting 14 stations around the church while leading the congregation in a series of prayers. The stations were icons that depicted scenes from Jesus’ last day on earth.  

The whole process took about three hours. My feet ached as I stood on the hard linoleum floor in the pews with my classmates. I became light-headed while watching the priest slowly move from station to station, his figure gradually transforming into a hazy image in the semi-darkness. One time, I feinted backwards and slumped onto the wooden pew. Sister Genevieve scooted between the children on my left, folded me into a seated position and put my head between my knees. I was nauseous for the longest time. Finally, Sister Genevieve stood me up and half-carried me outside. I lay on the cement wall with my arms cushioning my head in the shade until the ritual was over.  

I remember promising myself that, once I was out of Catholic school, I would never attend the Stations of the Cross again.

Now, I am going to college in Los Angeles. There is a Catholic church two blocks from my apartment. In the front of the church is a spacious plaza, perfect for a gathering of friends after a celebration. I have walked past it several times on my way to campus, pedaling faster if people are streaming out the doors.  

Today, I’m going to conduct an experiment. Dad always said that if we didn’t go to church every Sunday, we’d be struck by lightning. I have decided to test this theory.

I open the door to my apartment, turn around and lock it. Then, I walk into the center courtyard of the building where the pool and spa are. My neighbor, Jason, is lying prone on a chaise lounge, mirror sunglasses shielding his eyes, sun tan lotion scenting the air around him. His already-tan skin shines like polished brass. His breathing is slow, so I tiptoe around him to the front hall.

The iron gate locks behind me and I turn right on Santiago Street. Leafy liquid amber trees buffer me from the sun as I stride past apartment complexes, gated communities of families interspersed with college students.

Santiago Street joins Junction Boulevard at a three-way stop. I swing my steps to the left to continue onto Junction. Now, neat, boxy front yards line the sidewalk. Two-story houses rise up behind them. Open windows. Curtains sailing out from inside second-story rooms. Front doors with lion-head knockers, single windows, and brass kick plates. Porch lights left on. Doormats askew.

Now I can see St. Angelo’s Catholic Church ahead on my side of the street. The curb is filled with parked cars. People get out and walk across the church’s front plaza to the wide-open double doors.

I’m in front of the church now. Inside, through the open doors, I see rows of wooden pews that remind me of my childhood. They are spaced like concentric circles around the altar. The church is round.

People are walking inside, dipping their fingers in a water font, and making the sign of the cross: their forehead, chest, shoulder and shoulder. Amen.

My chest tightens as I take a step toward the entrance. I struggle to breathe deeply. I pause in the middle of the plaza as the church bell rings the time. Time for Mass.

Now, several people are rushing past me to get a seat before Mass starts. I watch them, pretending they can’t see me there. No one knows I’m here.

Deliberately, I turn around and tread back to the sidewalk away from organ music that signals the Mass is beginning. Voices sing words like poetry.

I continue walking farther away. My ritual-heavy childhood.

The tree canopies are waving like sails, the sheer blue sky is splashed with sun.

Lightning wouldn’t dare strike me on such a beautiful day.