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by Sean Taylor
There is confession in the glances of our eyes; in
our smiles; in salutations; and the grasp of hands.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Spiritual Laws," Essays
I stood outside Mount Haven Community Church for fifteen minutes before I decided to open the heavy mahogany door. There were many other churches in Cristol City I could have chosen, some of them Catholic, like my own upbringing, some of them bigger and more likely to have someone on hand at this late an hour to help me. But Mount Haven had something none of the others had-Ken Hamilton.
My old roommate from UCLA.
A friend.
Though with all the changes in my life over the past few years, I knew he'd never recognize me. After all, he'd roomed for three years with a soccer athlete, a male student who'd seldom hurt for a date on campus.
How could he know the dark-haired, Middle-Eastern woman with a swollen, rounded belly that carried the prophesied warrior child of a long-dead civilization was the same man he'd worked out codes with for the door of the dorm room to indicate one of them had company for a few hours? How could he know that a screw-up with a magical ceremony that was supposed to give my former fiancée superpowers had chosen me instead and turned me into the host for all the powers-and gender-of the Tyranian warrior goddess? How could he know that the superheroine Fishnet Angel who had graced the cover of numerous magazines and spoken at hundreds of civic events across the country was the same guy he used to sneak beer onto campus with?
And just what did I hope to accomplish by coming? Did I expect him to open his arms and say, "Welcome back, Mark. It's so good to see you come bounding in all matronly and pregnant and blow my entire faith out of the water with your talk of gods and goddesses and prophesied children? Would you like some coffee?"
Who was I kidding?
Still, I opened the door. I had come this far, and I would see it through, no matter the outcome. I owed myself that, at least.
The door swung open without a squeak, and I peered around it before stepping inside. At the front stood a medium build black man in a white golf shirt and brown slacks. He stood with his back to me, his bald head catching the reflection of the lights above him.
With my enhanced hearing, I heard him praying, thanking his God for one blessing after another. I waited, not wanting to disturb his prayer. So what if my life had torn my childhood religion from me and forced me into a world of gods and goddesses I couldn't have imagined, Ken was a friend, and I couldn't, wouldn't interrupt to tear him away from his.
I glanced down at my hands while he prayed, examining again their dark hue. So much had changed even since the time I'd been raped in my sleep by the Tyranian War God and had learned that I was carrying his child. Before he had died, he had told me that the child would help me realize my destiny, regardless of who I had been before. And it seemed that he had been right. A few weeks after the pregnancy, I found my skin and hair turning darker, and within two months, I was no longer the blonde woman the world knew as Fishnet Angel, but a Middle-Eastern woman expecting her first child.
I had to admit, the change brought at least one unexpected blessing. People no longer recognized me on the street and flocked around for autographs. After two years of being unable to hide in a crowd, I had learned to appreciate the anonymity of not standing out.
And with my powers maturing along with the child inside me, I had discovered another new ability, the ability to change my appearance, enough to appear at my public events again as the blonde, American woman people recognized as Fishnet Angel.
A real secret identity. Just like other superheroes. I remembered laughing out loud on the Los Angeles subway when I recognized the irony. I had even wondered if my new power would let me change my body into a male again, but I couldn't risk it with the baby depending on a woman's body for nourishment.
A noise from the front of the church roused me from my memories. Ken had finished his prayers and was rearranging the candles on the altar. When he finished, he turned and made his way to the left side of the church. I took a step, but stopped when I heard my low-heeled boot make an echoing click on the stone floor. The sound seemed out-of-place in the sanctuary, an intrusion into Ken's solitude.
He turned when he heard the noise and called out, "May I help you?"
I took a deep breath and walked toward him.
"We're not exactly open for business right now," he said, approaching me.
I stopped a few feet away from him. "Since when does God keep office hours?" I asked with a smile.
His face appeared younger than I had imagined it would be. At college he always seemed a few years older than the rest of our group of friends, even though his birthday came after ours. Now, hiding under his glasses, he had a few wrinkles around his eyes that I hadn't seen before, but his face had remained smooth and friendly. "Are you a member of the church, Miss...?" he asked, clearly confused by my manner.
"Williams." I shook my head. "I'm new in town."
"Ah. Because I'm sure I would have remembered a woman like you."
I smiled weakly. Another of the curses of the transformation. Being noticed by men, and apparently even priests.
"Pardon me for asking, but Williams seems an odd name for a woman of your descent. A married name, perhaps."
I brushed aside the question. "I need to give a confession."
He came a step closer. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong church, Miss Williams. Father Yeomans down at St. Peter's will be able to help you more than I can, I'm afraid."
"I'm sorry. Theology isn't exactly my strong suit. I just thought maybe there would be someone here I could talk to."
"I'd be happy to talk with you, but I just can't take your confession." He smiled, clearly wanting to be helpful, but stuck in a theological catch-22.
I sighed. "You're probably right. This was a stupid idea." I turned to go, rubbing my belly for the comfort I'd found the gesture provided. "Thanks anyway."
Before I could step away, he grabbed my shoulder. "You're pregnant."
I nodded.
He took a deep breath and sighed. "I don't mean to pry, but how far along are you?"
"Seven months." I smoothed my hands over my belly, almost as if I could caress the child inside. So much had changed. "Do you like children, Father...?" I let the title hang, unresolved, hoping he'd read the hint and share his name before I slipped up and used it carelessly.
"Hamilton," he grinned. "And guilty as charged. My wife died before we could have any of our own, and the church keeps me so busy that..." He pulled at his collar, then took off his glasses and put them on again. "Do you have somewhere to go?"
I shook my head.
It was a lie, of course. I'd been staying at the Cristol City Grand Hotel for the past two weeks, and I had enough money from Fishnet Angel's speaking engagements to cover a few months of board, but if I'd learned anything from being a pregnant woman, it was that men were a pushover if you gave them an opportunity to play the white knight.
"Perhaps you'd like a cup of coffee," he said. "There's a pot brewing in the pastorate. It may not exactly be a confessional, but we could talk in there... if you really feel like talking to someone, I mean."
I nodded but didn't answer.
"I'll keep the door open, if it'll help you feel safer."
"Safer..." I mumbled, then laughed softly. "Are you sure it's okay?"
"God isn't limited to walls built by man, Miss Williams." He smiled full and wide. "I can't offer you rosaries or penance, but God will hear you over coffee, just the same as in the confessional, I'm sure."
"And what of gods and goddesses?" I asked.
Ken's face scrunched up in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't follow."
"It's okay," I said. "Sometimes I don't either, Father."
"Pastor, actually." He reached to take my hand. "But please, just call me Ken."
I gave him my hand and he shook it gently then let go.
"And you call me Marcia, then."
"Thank you, Marcia."
"Thank you, Ken."
He motioned toward the exit. "Come on, the pastorate is just across the garden."
* * *
"How do you like it?" Ken asked, his voice relaxed and a little loud.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, not following his sudden burst after the long silence once we reached his home.
"Your coffee. How do you take it?"
"Oh." I drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair. "A little bit of milk, please. Skim if you've got it."
"It's all I've got, body being a temple and what-not."
"Thanks." I suppressed a laugh. The Ken Hamilton I knew in school treated his body like a warehouse, not a temple. Just throw anything in there and let it sit someplace, from cheap, knock-off beer to cold pizza breakfasts. Off course, his metabolism made us jealous, seeing how none of that junk ever seemed to hurt his physique or keep him from making the soccer team consistently with so little effort.
So much had changed.
Ken's home was little more than a two-bedroom cottage with an open living room and kitchen. And most of that was taken up with bookshelf after bookshelf of religious commentaries and holy books from various religions. The most surprising bookcase, however, contained no religious works at all, only hundreds of books of poetry, from Hubert and Donne to cummings and Hughes and Angelou.
"A fan of poetry, I take it," I called out from the living room as he poured two mugs of coffee. "That's new, too," I added under my breath.
"I guess you could say I fancy myself something of a poet," he said. "I believe all people who are passionate about their faith do. Don't get me wrong, I'm no good with rhymes, and figures of speech get me twisted and tied up in intellectual knots, but I can at least appreciate good poetry."
"I see," I said, pulling a weathered hardcover of Leaves of Grass from the shelf. I opened the book and flipped through the pages, looking for the only Whitman poem I remembered from college-"I sing the body electric."
"Be careful with that, please," Ken said, his voice closer.
I closed the book and put it back on the shelf, then turned and watched as he set the mugs on his coffee table. "Sorry."
"It's okay. I should have mentioned those were first editions on that shelf. It's taken me years to find some of them." He sat down and motioned for me to join him. "I really should just break down and buy one of those glass cases that locks for them, but I can't stand the thought of shutting them away." He motioned to the shelf with a wide arc of his arm. "I mean, what's the point of having something just to lock it away and never really use it or enjoy it?"
I glanced at my slender, dark fingers as they gripped the handle of my mug. "I suppose."
He coughed to clear his throat. "Listen to me. You come over to talk about you, and here I am rambling on about my books, as if we've known each other for years. You must think me awfully rude for a man of God."
I smiled.
"So, what's on your mind, Marcia?" he asked, leaning forward and propping an arm on his knee.
"Ken."
"Yes?"
"My fiancée left me, ran off with someone... else."
"You're fiancé?" He softened, straightening in his chair. "I'm sorry to hear that. Were the two of you engaged long?"
"A little over a year." As I spoke, I through the purse I'd learned to accept, thanks to the significant absence of pockets on many women's slacks. "I guess something came between us."
He sighed and leaned all the way back in his chair, taking a slow draw of his coffee. "Ah," he said, the mug still close enough that his breath blew ripples across the top.
"Yes." I grabbed a pen from my purse and clicked it twice. "No. I came between us."
"I see," he said, taking another long draw from his coffee, his eyes locked onto mine as I continued to click and reclick the pen.
I recrossed my legs and lay the pen in my lap. "Ken?"
"Yes?"
"Ken, I've not been completely honest with you. I'm afraid I'm not the woman you think I am."
He smiled weakly, then wider, and let out a quiet laugh. "And I'm afraid you've officially lost me now. Maybe I should go back to the conversation about my books. At least then I knew what we were talking about." He put his mug on the end table beside his chair, then rubbed his chin. "I expected as much. Nobody puts out the body language you do unless you're trying to avoid the truth. It's okay, though. You don't have to share it with me. I'd be happy to send you to Father Yeomans at St. Peter's, if you'd be more comfortable."
I didn't answer, and instead reached for the pen, resisting the urge to click it, and dropped it into my purse.
"Well?" He stared, his eyes not letting mine look away. "If you're not who I think you are, then who are you?"
I caught my breath. "Listen, it is true that my fiancée just leave me, but..." I stopped. "Perhaps I'd better show you instead."
I stood up and willed my body to transform into the person the world knew as Fishnet Angel. There was no magical glow, no light show of crackling sparkles around me, no smoke or special effects. One minute I stood there a small, Middle-Eastern woman and the next and stood as a statuesque blonde.
Ken stood up quickly. "Oh my God," he said, his eyes wide and bright.
"Taking the Lord's name in vain, Father?" I asked with a friendly smirk.
He shook his head at me and rubbed his eyes, not answering. "Oh my God," he said again.
"As I said, I'm not the woman you thought I was."
He stared for a moment, his eyes scanning me, trying to take in the sudden change in ethno-genetic makeup. He studied the softness of my face, the curves of my more athletic frame, and the toned muscles of my legs. On his way back up my body, I noticed his eyes as they fixated on the swell that still stuck out prominently at my belly. He coughed and said, "But you are pregnant."
"Yes."
"Your fiancé?"
I looked at the floor and shook my head. I could tell my status as a role model for young girls was quickly fading. And me a superhero.
He smiled and reached for my hands, and I looked up at him. His eyes were warm and bright but somehow seemed more wrinkled in the corners than before. I let him take my hand, and he leaned toward me. "Your name is Marcia, right?" He paused. "Because I'll understand if it isn't and you need to use a fake."
I shook my head again. "Actually, my name, as I recently discovered, is Ashtanyaka. But I prefer to go by Marcia."
"I see."
Ken eased me back into my chair, let go of my hands, and stood over me. "The father... are you still seeing him?"
I felt a shallow breath catch in my throat, and I coughed it away. "He's dead. But it's not what you think." I reached for what was left of my coffee, but stopped, leaving the mug untouched on the table. "He... he raped me."
"I'm sorry. I really am."
"It's okay. Nothing you could do about it." Ken took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then squinted in my direction. "Was he-How do I say this?-one of your supervillains or arch enemies or whatever you call them?"
I nodded.
He appeared relieved.
"Seems to me you lead quite a complicated life, Marcia," he said, his voice quieter, his tone almost fatherly.
"Yeah."
"Have you talked with your family? Do they know about the baby?" he asked as he slipped his glasses back on.
"I don't have any family."
"I see."
I doubt he did. He couldn't. I'm sure he probably assumed I only meant that my family was dead. But they weren't. It was just that I hadn't had any contact with my parents or sister since becoming Fishnet Angel. Maybe they thought the son and brother they knew as Mark Williams was dead. Maybe he was dead. Maybe the guy I used to be had family, but not me. Not now.
"You're the only other person besides my former fiancée who knows my secret, Father Hamilton."
"Please, Ken. Or at the very least, Pastor Hamilton, if it makes you feel more comfortable."
"Sorry. I'm kind of new to this religion stuff." I stared at his hands folded across his chest, his thick, dark fingers standing out against his white shirt. "I needed for someone to know who I was. It's isolating having to keep secrets like this by yourself..." I could still make out the indentations on his finger where his wedding ring had been worn for so many years. "And when the only person you've shared the secret with leaves you, that can be..."
"Lonely?"
"Yes." I folded my arms across my belly and sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you into this."
He shook his head but didn't speak. I unfolded my arms and pushed against the arms of my chair to stand, but he motioned for me to stay.
"Father Hamilton?"
He smiled, though it looked more than a little forced. "Give me a second, okay. This isn't something I usually have to deal with in a typical counseling session." He walked to the kitchen, taking his empty mug and putting it on the counter beside the sink. "I'm just a preacher. I usually deal in the spiritual, not the superheroic."
I forced a laugh. "Don't superheroes have souls too, Preacher?"
He grinned. "Didn't I ask you to call me Ken?"
I started to stand again. "Maybe I should just go and give you some time to think or something."
Once again, he shook his head. "The damage is done. It's just that it's not everyday a superhero comes in and tell me all her secrets."
I looked at his eyes as they examined mine from across the kitchen counter and the cluttered living room, perhaps searching for the rest of my secrets.
The moment had come. With a few selfishly chosen words, I could tell him everything, all my secrets. And if the Ken I knew from college hadn't changed too much, he'd be shocked at first, then look at me as if I were crazy, then sigh and try his best to appear understanding.
At least until it got to be too much for even him and his faith. Then it would drive him away too, just like Andi. And this stupid curse would steal from me another friend who couldn't deal with my screwed-up new life.
I continued to stare. He seemed a little heavier than he'd been at school, but not fat. Still the same man in so many ways-still a man. Then I glanced at my belly and the slender, pale fingers that rested on the wide arc of flesh and fabric.
"I bet." With a thought, I transformed my body back into that of a younger, more petite, Middle Eastern woman. "I bet you have secrets of your own, Ken."
He laughed full and loud. "But none like yours, my dear. And mine are between me and the Lord."
"Sounds convenient."
He grinned. He'd done that a lot. "It's comforting actually."
"Must be nice." I sighed, more loudly than I'd intended. "To be comforted like that, I mean." I got up and carried my mostly empty mug to the kitchen, then poured what was left into the sink. I watched as the creamy, brown liquid disappeared into the drain, wondering if the last of Mark Williams was slithering down the pipes with it.
"Would you like a fresh cup?" Ken asked. "Or are you finished?"
I stared at the mug, focusing on the light, wet mixture of coffee residue that hadn't made it into the sink. "Sure," I said, turning on the facet to rinse the residue from the mug. "And if you don't mind, I'll try it black this time," I added, emptying with mug again into the sink.
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