Convictions
by
Rachel Reardon

“It’s times like this that I wish I could believe,” Christiano whispered one Sunday, while the priest gave an exuberant homily. He tapped his fingers against his knee, edgy from nicotine withdrawal. Even though he couldn’t wait to get out, he still found the idea of religion romantic in some indefinable way.

Elliott understood. Every word enamored the congregation. He spared a glance at the crucifix, then a longer one at a statue of the Virgin. He sighed and whispered back, “I wish I could know there’s nothing to believe in.”

At home later, he told his aunt, “I think I want to be a singer.”

“You should join the church choir.” Of course, the church solved everything, according to her. Though he couldn’t explain to himself why, he took her advice. He was nervous during the first practice, but immediately realized that he needed it. And for the first time, he felt like he was really good at something.

The news didn’t surprise Chris as much as Elliott would have expected. He figured it must have seemed strange for an agnostic, rebellious seventeen-year-old to want to spend his free time singing psalms. Then again, he’d known Elliott since grade school and had lived with him since his parents kicked him out almost a year before, so he was used to Elliott’s strange decisions by now. Just to humor him, Chris asked, “So, why did you join the choir?”

“I like to think of it as a recompense for my existence.”
He also knew that Elliott liked to be melodramatic.

“Is your existence a burden?”

“Clearly. My aunt can’t stand me. I don’t blame her, though. I’m exactly like my mother. Wouldn’t it make anyone bitter to be constantly reminded of their dead sister? Doesn’t it make you feel bitter to see your father at mass every Sunday and not be able to speak to him afterward? I imagine it’s similar.”

“My father is irrelevant,” Chris said, his eyes cast toward the floor.

“No, he’s not. We’ve both been orphaned.”

Elliott learned to play Ave Maria on piano because, no matter what he believed about religion, he could respect Mary. He knew, whether Jesus was a deity or an ordinary man, whether her conception had been immaculate or not, that she had let go of her beloved son. It must have been painful but she didn’t fight it, because she knew he could only fulfill his destiny by leaving his previous life behind. Yeah, Elliott could definitely see the virtue in that. He hadn’t prayed to God in a long time, but sometimes he prayed hoping Mary could hear him.

One afternoon, Elliott and Chris were in the attic, dusty boxes built up around them like walls. Summer hadn’t arrived yet, but Jersey already felt like a furnace, making them glimmer with perspiration as Dylan’s perfectly untrained voice floated through the otherwise deserted house. Chris leaned closer to the oscillating fan placed in front of the old couch they were sitting on and rested his elbows on his knees. “What do you want to do with your life?”

Elliott closed his eyes for a while, one bare foot tapping out the beat of the song against the oak floor. “I wish I could be Bob Dylan,” Elliott said as the next song started. It was his favorite and he couldn’t help but sing along. Chris watched, admiring Elliott’s naïve happiness in not knowing what he wanted to make of himself. At least he hadn’t lost hope in being anything at all. “Look out, kid, it’s something you did. God knows when, but you’re doing it again.”
“Zia, can I talk to you?” Elliott asked his aunt a few weeks later, when just the two of them were home. His uncle was at work, as always, and Chris hadn’t said where he was going so Elliott assumed he was only buying cigarettes.

“Sure, honey,” she replied.

“I won’t go to church anymore.” His aunt didn’t say anything to that; instead, she stared at him with her eyebrows raised. That didn’t seem like a good sign. Elliott floundered for a few moments. How was he supposed to explain his apathy toward religion to a woman whose life was so deeply devoted to it? “I don’t believe in God.”

“I know that people your age sometimes have to question these things. But you can’t give it all up. You’ve already been confirmed in your faith. You need some time to think and then you will return to God.” She grasped the cross that hung around her neck with her right hand, and with the other gestured for Elliott to sit. He remained standing.

“I turn eighteen in a week. This is something I need to decide for myself. And I can’t give up God; I already have.” Elliott wanted her understanding but no longer needed it. Music had already ignited a fire in him, some small flickering flame that grew to something more beautiful and out of his control. Inextinguishable.

“Do what you want when you move out, but anyone who lives under my roof goes to mass on Sunday.” She paused and sighed. “What would your mother think about this?”

“My mother is dead. What I remember most about her is how much she loved music, but she made herself a good, Christian housewife because she didn’t think she had a choice. At least she got out. I can finally access my inheritance next weekend, and I’m getting out, too.”

“I guess you’ll find out the hard way that if you reject God, life might be less generous with you.”

“Well, sometimes you just have to take what you want.”

Elliott walked outside and found Chris leaning against the back of the house, smoking. “Hey.” He noticed Elliott’s solemn expression. “What’s wrong?”

“If I left, would you come with me?”

Chris looked surprised for a moment. “Yes, of course.”

That was all the reassurance he needed.

Even after the highway began to seem like a monotonous blur, Elliott couldn’t help but think he’d never felt happier. Some doubts still weighed in his mind, though, and he didn’t know how to deal with them. He looked over at Chris. “Do you miss your family?”

Chris recoiled at the subject. “…Yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m supposed to stay with them forever. Don’t start regretting this already. You needed to leave.”

“I’m so afraid of being alone,” Elliott admitted.

“Are you alone?” Chris reached across the console, eyes still on the road, and took Elliott’s hand. He hadn’t realized he was shaking until that moment, but his nerves eased at the familiar touch.

A moment passed with only the muffled sounds of the highway and Bob Dylan on the stereo. The vagabond who’s rapping at your door is standing in the clothes that you once wore. Elliott had known the words to this one for years but he was oddly content not to sing along with them. He remembered his mother singing it before the accident and he preferred imagining her voice to hearing his own. “No,” he answered, and for once, he knew what it felt like to believe.